Innocence
by Soledad
Summary: Aka: The Minstrel of Rivendell. The story of Lindir and Erestor. WIP. Finally an update. Rating is for war-induced violence. For some reason the summary shows 2 more chapters than there actually are. Sorry.
1. Prologue: Nightmare

INNOCENCE  
by Soledad Cartwright  
  
  
Disclaimer:  
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only Erestor's family belongs to me.  
  
Rating: R in this chapter, for war-related violence mostly.  
  
Warning: this whole story is about a married Elven couple - both males -, so don't read it, if same-gender relationships are a problem for you.  
I hate the word 'slash', because it has become the label of mindless smut, and this is most certainly *not* a smut story.  
Still, if you're offended by m/m interaction, even by mild one, you should probably go away now. There are many other wonderful stories for you to read.  
  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES:  
  
After I've written Chapter 3 to ''Of Riddles of Doom and Paths of Love'', I became interested in Erestor's background. Also, a few of my readers expressed curiosity why Lindir was behaving so young and child-like as he did. Therefore I felt the obligation to write their story.  
  
This is a stand-alone, although it would help to read ''Of Riddles of Doom and Paths of Love'' first. Bit it's not absolutely necessary. You'd undersand the story as it is.  
  
Reviews, as always, are much appreciated.  
  
  
PROLOGUE  
  
Erestor was dreaming.  
  
As often when having fallen asleep to the beautiful songs of his spouse, he was brought back to his childhood, to the beautifully carved stone houses and paved roads of Ost-in-Edhil, the city of Celebrimbor, when the holly-trees of Eregion were still young and the west gate of Khazad-dúm, called Hadhodrond by the Elves, wide open at the end of the highroad that connected Eregion with the great mansions of the Dwarves.  
  
In his dreams he could see his lost home again: his father, one of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, the People of the Jewel-smiths, labouring in his workshop til the late hours of the night, catching the light of Varda's stars in the gemstones of his creations; and his mother, laughing merrily in their garden, protected by stone walls, watching his little siblings, hardly more than toddlers both, since they were twin brother and sister, palying under the holly bushes.  
  
And he saw himself as a young elfling, all lanky limbs and wide eyes, pointed ears seemingly too long compared with his narrow face, standing on the side of his father, watching in awe the skilled hands and callused fingers of Hargil(1), working with endless patience on some very delicate piece of jewellery, teaching his firstborn son the fine tricks of his handiwork.  
  
  
This was his last memory of his father, for shortly thereafter the horrible shrieks of hideous Orc-hords roused the quiet streets of the city, and hungry flames leapt upon the roofs of Elven homes, and small children were running through burning gardens, screaming after their parents, trampled down by the cruel, iron-shod feet of Orcs. And Nimuial(2), holding the broken body of her slain children upon her lap before the gate of their home, her long hair in flames... the last thing he had seen of his mother, grieving, consumed alive by the fire that destroyed their home and their city.  
  
  
Then all went dark for a long time, and when he opened his frightened eyes again, the fair city he was born and raised was no more, just smoking ruins and the horrible stench of death. He was lying on the ground and a strange Elf in shining armour, stained with the black blood of slain Orcs, leaned over him.  
  
An Elf-Lord of high rank, doubtlessly, for he wore a white star upon his brow, and he was noble and fair in face; a strong warrior, yet in his keen grey eyes there was wisdom, and he looked as venerable as the King of the Dwarves who had visited the city not so long ago; and his manner was kind, even amid the horrors of destruction.  
  
'What is your name, young one?', he asked, his voice deep and soothing.  
  
'E-erestor... s-son of Hargil', the elfling stottered, surprised that he was able to answer at all. His throat was still sore from the smoke and from having screamed so loud. 'W-what... happened...'  
  
'You were hit upon your head, son of Hargil', the warrior Lord said. 'Is... *was* this your home?'  
  
The elfling tried to get to his wobby feet but could hardly stand. The scene before his tearful eyes was one of utter destruction. The lovely house that had been his home was gone. Burnt, blackened walls with no roof rose from cindery stumps of a dead garden. And amidst the smoldering ruins lay the charred corpses of his family.  
  
'I am sorry, little one', the warrior Lord said, deep voice full of regret. 'We came too late.'  
  
And he held the elfling in strong arms, supporting his sweaty forehead in one large palm while the boy was vomitting, waiting for him patiently to overcome his first shock, though the battle was still going on in other parts of the ruined city. Then he pulled a cloath from beneath his breast-plate and wiped the boy's face clean - or as clean as it could have been done under these circumstances.  
  
'My Lord, we have to go', another voice, this one clear and ringing like a silver bell, said from behind. It belonged to a tall, gold-haired Elf-Lord, clad in shining armour as well, with the likeness of the rayed Sun upon his helmet. 'The reinforcements of the Enemy are closing up again.'  
  
The warrior Lord nodded and stood, sweeping the shattered boy up in his arms.  
  
'We are leaving. There is naught we could do any more. We have come too late.'  
  
'What about the boy?', the gold-haired one asked. 'We cannot leave him here. His family is slain, and the Orcs will be returning, soon.'  
  
'We take him with us. Any other survivors?'  
  
'A few. Mostly women and children who have found a good hiding place in time. And a handful of men who are wounded but still alive. Celebrimbor is not among them.'  
  
'That unfortunate fool', the warrior Lord sighed. 'Go, summon your people, old friend. We have to retreat, as long as we can.'  
  
The gold-haired Elf-Lord mounted his white horse and rode away, calling the heralds to summon their people. Soon, the ringing of silver trumpets could be heard, then the loud clatter of hoofs, like a far-away thunderstorm, and the host of Elves moved on, leaving the ruined, still burning city and its murdered people behind.  
  
The young elfling in the safe arms of the warrior Lord was sobbing quietly.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
''Erestor... Wake up, love!'', a soft, lyrical voice insisted. ''Come back to me... you are dreaming again. Hush, dear one, 'tis only a nightmare...'''   
  
Gentle hands shook him out of the dark depths of his nightmare, and when his eyes - swollen and still full of tears - focussed again, he gazed into the worried face of his beloved.  
  
With the moonlight shining on his long, pale blond hair and giving his fine-boned face an otherworldly glow of ethereal beauty, Lindir of Rhosgobel looked like a creature of myths - like the fairies from the nursery tales of mortal Men.  
  
''Easy now'', he murmured softly, wiping the tears from his beloved's face with long, slender fingers and gently stroking Erestor's lips with his thumbs, ''twas only a dream. Yu are safe now.''  
  
Erestor closed his eyes for a moment, letting the love of his spouse wash over him like a warm wave as his shivers slowly died down. Then he looked up again into that incredibly beautiful face.  
  
''I am always safe with you'', he whispered.  
  
Lindir smiled shyly and kissed his brow.  
  
''So I have vowed on the day of our bonding'', he said. ''To love you and cheerish you and protect you from any harm - and I am not an Elf to break his oath, you know.''  
  
* * * * * * * * * * *  
  
All right, I know it was fairly short, bur I needed a ''real life'' tie-in to palce the story timely. This particular scene happens at the same time when the Fellowship of the Ring struggle to reach the other side of the Misty Mountains and Glorfindel is telling the story of his life Elrond and his children. All the other chapters will be major flashbacks and will happen in Imladris, save, of course, the battle against the Witch-king of Angmar.  
  
Practically, I could have created an original character as Erestor's spouse, but I avoid that if I can. We don't know very much about Lindir, and he doesn't have any great part in LOTR, his only liner being when he light-heartedly insults Bilbo about his verse of Eärendil. Since Bilbo didn't seem too upset, I assumed that Lindir must have been a well-loved person in Imladris, who could afford a few thoughtless words. And so this character was born.  
  
  
End notes:  
  
  
1 Means 'southern star' in Sindarin (or so I hope).  
2 Means 'white twilight' - stupid, I know, but it sounded good; besides, I couldn't come up with anything better. 


	2. Chapter 1: First Sight

INNOCENCE  
by Soledad Cartwright  
  
  
Disclaimer:  
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only Erestor's family belongs to me.  
  
Rating: PG for this chapter.  
  
Please read Warnings before the Prologue.  
  
  
Author's Notes:  
  
And this is where the story really starts: nearly two and a half millennia before The Lord of the Rings. But fear not, all the people you'll meet in this chapter are good old friends - presumed, you've read the *book*. Otherwise, this fic just isn't for you.  
  
  
CHAPTER ONE: FIRST SIGHT  
  
[The 10th day of *coirë*(1), in the year 532 of the Third Age]  
  
It was a cool yet beautiful afternoon in Imladris - one that urges any self-respecting Elf to leave the house and take a walk among the trees that - true to the name of the last season of *loa*(2) - had barely begun stirring from their long winter sleep.  
  
Not that any one who dwelt in this Elven valley actually would have to leave the house in order to feel the light breeze upon their faces - there were no doors in Imladris (save those of the secret libraries) to keep out the wind or the sunshine, and now, that the cold of the winter had broken, even the tapestries were removed from the tall, narrow windows that reached from the paved floors up to the arched ceilings and could also have been used as entrances to the different parts of the house.  
  
Still, finished teaching his three now-grown children in the fine art of lore, the Lord of Imlardis felt like taking a stroll in his gardens, together with the Lady of his House and his heart, and Celebrían was easily persuaded, for she had lived in the Golden Wood for many long seasons and always felt more at home under the trees than among the stone walls of her husband's home. Therefore the Lord and Lady of the Valley put on some warm garment against the chilly freshness of the season and left the house.  
  
Kingly they looked together, though they vere not called King and Queen: tall and proud and fair-faced as the nobles of the Eldar, to whom they belonged, usually are, though the blood of mortal Men that coursed in his veins gave Elrond Half-elven a stronger, broader build than most Elves had. Like a great warrior he was, strong and keen-eyed, his raven hair set in the ceremonial braids of the Nodlor, his white undergown and heavy burgundy velvet robe richly embroided with gold, and a delicately woven mithril ring adorned his brow.  
  
Celebrían shone at his side like a silver birch compared to a strong oak, her silver hair braided to an intricate crown upon her head and covered with a silver lace netted with small gems, glittering white; yet her soft grey raiment had no ormnament save a girdle of leaves wrought in silver - and over that she wore a mantle of silver and blue. Fair she was as the twilight in elven-home, and all that dwelt in the walley loved her - but no-one as deeply as the Lord of the Valley to whom she was bound with a bond of never-ending love.  
  
And so they strolled in companionable silence under the trees, for they needed no spoken words to understand each other, holding hands and summing qiuetly some old lay, when a young Elf came up the narrow stairway cut in the living stone of the hillside: Erestor, whom the Lord of the Valley had saved from the smoldering ruins of Ost-in Edhil, the once-beautiful city of Celebrimbor, the greatest Elven-smith of Middle-earth, save Fëanor himself.  
  
Erestor's parents and siblings were slain by Orcs with most of the people of that town, and only by chance did he survive himself, to be found by Elrond, who had been sent to help by Gil-galad but arrived too late; and he brought the boy back to the newly-founded Imladris and raised and taught him as his own. It was not the custom of the Noldor to take children of lesser birth into foster care, but Elrond took pity of the terrified young elfling - and he never regretted it.  
  
For Erestor grew up to become an acceptable scholar and a fierce warrior, determined to avenge the death of his family and the destruction of his first home, and after the Battle of Dagorlad, where he almost died from his multiple injuries, each grave enough to kill any less stubborn Elf, he was made the seneschal of the valley and entrusted to run Elrond's house, taking a lot of burden from the Lord's shoulders.  
  
He came up the steep path slowly, for in spite of Elrond's healing skills and the more than five hundred years that had passed by since that vicious battle, he was still recovering from his injuries, if not bodily then certainly when his heart and his mind were concerned, and sometimes Elrond was concerned about him, for he had much less time to spend with his foster son since he had a family of his own, and at times it seemed to him as if Erestor were slowly fading away.  
  
Celebrían shared her husband's concerns, though she believed that the main reason for the young Elf's often listless manner was the fact that he felt lonely. He was much younger and far too somber to have aught in common with his Lord's children, and no-one in the valley belonged to his own kindred, so he had no company and no friends, only his work.  
  
Which, in Celebrían's opinion, was not enough to live for.  
  
Often had she tried to break up the cocoon of loneliness Erestor surrounded himself, yet the young Elf was not easy to approach, in spite of his unfallable politeness. He wore his faultless manners as a shield against every one who tried to get close to him - against Elrond's family even more than others.  
  
Mayhap there was a small matter of jealousy that he now had to share his saviour with so many people more dear to him than a mere fosterling, and slowly but deliberately he retreated from Elrond, too, closing the stone walls of his solitude tighter around himself with every passing season.  
  
Elladan was the only one who could break through his protective walls every time and again, for Elrond's eldest, too, often felt alone and mismatched among his own kin, due o the heritage of his mortal ancestors that could be felt unusually strongly in him. They even became lovers for a short period and remainded casual friends after that, but there was no true common ground between them, since it was the company of mortal Men that Ellandan carved most, while Erestor only felt comfortable among fellow Elves.  
  
Besides, Elladan always had his twin for company and support.  
Erestor had no-one.  
  
Therefore both the Lord and the Lady watched with a certain sadness the pale face of the young Elf that had not gained any colour, not even through the slow climbing, and Elrond asked kindly:  
''Are we needed in the house?''  
  
''Nay, my Lord... Lady Celebrían'', the young seneschal bowed slightly while addressing them. ''Not yet, at least. But message has come in that one of the Istari(3) shall arrive at sunset.''  
  
Elrond lifted an already arched eyebrow. The Istari seldom visited his house in peacetime, and if one of them dropped in unannounced, that usually meant no good.  
  
''Curunír or Mithrandir?'', he asked, hoping it would be the latter. Regardless of Curunír's great skills and wisdom (not to mention his powers), he always felt more comfortable with the Grey Pilgrim. Mithrandir had an easy way about him that made getting along with him most pleasurable.  
  
But Erestor shook his head.  
''Neither'', he said, looking a little amazed himself; ''according to the Eagle, 'tis Aiwendil who wants to have a word with the Lord of the Valley.''  
  
Now Elrond was truly surprised. Aiwendil, or as Men called him Radagast the Brown, the third of the Istari in age and rank, had never set foot in his realm before. Indeed, hardly ever did he get incolced with the affairs of Elves and Men, living alone in Rhosgobel, near the borders of Emyn Galen, but avoiding even the Silvan folk under the reign of Thranduil (though of all Elves he still got along with the Tree Children(4) best), spending his time in the company of birds and other good beasts.  
  
''Did he let known the purpose of his visit?'', the Lord of Imladris asked.  
  
Erestor only shook his head again.  
''Only his coming has been announced, my Lord.''  
  
''Well then'', Elrond sighed and gave his wife a rueful smile, ''it seem we have to cut our stroll short, Lady Silverqueen(5).''  
  
''It would be unwise to make one of the Istari upset'', Celebrían agreed, laughing quietly; ''for 'tis said that they are subtle and quick to anger. Let us return to the house.''  
  
And so they did, and Erestor followed them dutifully.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
It was less than an hour left til sunset when a big, brown horse approached the eastern gate of the walley. An old man, clad in a rough brown robe, sat in its saddle, his long, grey beard covering his knees; and he wore a big, brown hood instead of a hat, in the manner of Dwarves.The long staff in his hand looked like a big, dired-out tree root, yet no-one in the valley doubted that it had considerable powers. For Radagast the Brown, called Aiwendil (the Bird-lover) in the tongue of Elwes, was a respectable wizard; a master of shapes and changes of hue - one that understood the speach of birds and beasts of every kind.  
  
As he rode in, many of the dwellers of the valley gathered before the houses and on the balconies to greet him, for he was known for his great knowledge in herb-lore as well, and many of the Elven healers hoped that they could have a word or two with him later. Yet it was not the wizard himself, regardless of his somewhat disheveled appearance (for he looked a little wild himself indeed, having spent so little time among Elves and Men), who caught their eyes.  
  
It was his escort.  
For he came not alone. Another horse, this one smaller and more finely boned yet strong and nimble, followed his big steed, and upon its bare back sat the youngest Elf the valley had seen for a very long time.  
  
He most likely was not even full-aged yet - more a young elfling, truly, trough he showed no sign of the lankiness that was so characteristic for the youth of the Eldar, even Elrond's own children. Slim he was indeed, almost thin, yet he rode his horse with practiced ease, and in his long, slender limbs there was a strength one would not expect from a youngling built this narrowly. His long, silky hair had the pale golden colour of winter sunshine, and his wide, astonished eyes were greyish blue like the Sea in the shadow of long, dark lashes.  
  
With other words, he was beautiful.  
More than that: a rare gem of beauty even among the Fair Folk.  
  
Yet his beauty came not from the pleasant outer shell of his being alone; there was an air of pure innocence upon him, an unblemished light that shone in those dreamy eyes that seemed to drink in all of the intricate beauty made by skilled Elven hands that Imladris could offer.  
  
Glorfindel, who had came out with Erestor to greet the wizard, felt a dull pain in his ancient heart. This youngling reminded him of the long-forgotten, twilit days of his own youth, before the coming of the Sun and the Moon, when starlight was the only thing to shine in the darkness of Arda. He wondered where Aiwendil might have met this boy.  
  
Erestor, as it was his duty, hurried to welcome the wizard, who dismounted and leaned heavily on his staff. He truly seemed old and weary, more so than Erestor (who alone aside of Glorfindel from Elrond's household knew who the Istari really were) would think it possible. Great hardness must it have been, indeed, to wear even a wizard out, for tough they might not have been young, they aged very slowly, and were able to endure harder times than even the Dwarves.  
  
The youngling, too, sprang from his horse but stayed very close to the faithul beast as if he would trust him more than all these unknown Elves. He wore leggings and a soft leather tunic in brown and grey, in the manner of the Silvan folk, but no weapons, and aside from two thin braids above the delicately pointed ears, his hair was open and unadorned, falling over his shoulders like a pale silk curtain.  
  
He looked around in a strange way - not particularly frightened, yet very shy as if he were not used to be surrounded by so many people at once, and molded his slim frame to the warm side of his horse, hands clutched in the mane of the animal.  
  
/This one is more comfortable with beasts than with people - just like his mentor/, Erestor noticed with slight empathy. He did not like being crowded, either.  
  
As it was his duty, the seneschal of Elrond's house came forth to greet the visitors of his Lord.  
  
''Welcome to Imladris, Master Aiwendil'', he said with a slight bow; ''Your presence honours us. The Lord and the Lady of the Valley are awaiting you. Please follow me as I shall show you the way; your beasts will be taken care of.''  
  
The wizard gave him a piercing look from under bushy eyebrows.  
'Hmmmm...'', he grumbled, ''I was told you had very good manners. Now I see that Gandalf was right as usual. Well then... lead us the way!''  
  
Erestor bowed again and went forth, leaving it to the younger Elves under his command to take care of the horses. The youngling, after a moment of hesitation, let himself be parted from his four-legged friend and followed them. They went through the wide, pawed courtyard, through several gardens and gracefully arched corridors, til they finally reached the huge, somewhat shadowy antechamber of Elrond's house, where the corridors leading tho the private areas of his family opened from.  
  
The airy room was pawed with hewn stones in the colours of deep copper and pale gold; stocky rectangular pillars held its broad stairways that led to the upper levels, high under the arched ceiling that was already half-hidden in the deepening evening shadows. There were several tall, narrow writing pulpits from the sort where scribes had to work standing, made of deep golden, polished wood, and tall, slender candlesticles of copper with honey-coloured, thin beewax candles upon them.  
  
Among all these rich, golden and brown autumn colours the Lady of Imladris glittered like mithril, silver and white marble. As it was custom in the Houses of the Eldar nobles, Celebrían, the Silver Queen of the Valley, waited before the main stairway to welcome the guests of her husband's house.  
  
''Elen síla lúmen omentielvo'', she said in Quenya, honouring both the old custom and the rare guest. ''Be your stay in our home a pleasant one, Master Aiwendil.''  
  
''How very kind of you, my good Lady'', the wizard, clearly no friend of formality, responded. ''Indeed, I would have visited your fair house much earlier, had my labours been less numerous.''  
  
Celebrían smiled, for she knew from her father how uncomfortable the wizard felt among people, and that he only mingled with Elves or Men when it was not to avoid for some higher cause. Then she turned to the youngling, who would not leave the side of the wizard, and asked him with a friendly smile.  
  
''Do you have a name, young one?''  
  
The elfling blushed and cast his eyed down. The old man gave him a gruff but friendly nudge, so he looked up again and smiled shyly.  
  
''Lindir... Lindir of Rhosgobel, my Lady'', he said in a soft, musical voice, making the simple introduction sound like part of a song of great beauty.  
  
Yet the name made Celebrían frown. To her knowledge, the Istari were not allowed to have offspring with the children of Arda; besides, the youngling did not seem as if he were of mixed blood.  
  
'''Tis a long tale, Lady'', the wizard offered with a sigh. ''It is mostly on his behalf that I have come to ask Master Elrond's help.''  
  
''Come then'', said Celebrían, ''he is waiting for you in the upper library.''  
And she waved towards one of the open entrances on the left.  
  
But the wizard lifted uncomfortably.  
''If you do not mean, Lady, I... I would rather you could find someone to show my young charge around while I speak to your husband. There are matters I want not to discuss before him.''  
  
Celebrían noded with a smile.  
''I believe I know the right person for this'', she said, then she hit a small silver bell on the side of the staircase.  
  
A few moments later a tall, dark-haired, maiden entered the antechamber. Though very young, she already was alike her mother in her beauty - yet with a strange, nearly invisible shadow upon her very being; the veil of her share in mortal blood; the same that made Elrond's features so strangely unique.  
  
''Arwen'', said Celebrían with a fond smile, ''this is Lindir of Rhosgobel. He came with Master Aiwendil to our home, but we think the counsels of elders would be of little interest for him. Could you take him somewhere more pleasant?''  
  
The fair maiden thought for a moment.  
''I can take him to our watching spot above the waterfall'', she said. ''We still have some time left til sunset, so he would have a wondrous sight of our valley.''  
  
''That is a nice thought'', Celebrían agreed. ''Where are your brothers?''  
  
''They are with their horses'', Arwen replied; then, giving the shy youngling an encouraging smile, she added: ''but I think he would be better off with me first. The two are a little too brash for someone who knows them not.''  
  
''That they are'', Celebrían laughed. ''Very well. I entrust the comfort of our young visitor to you, daughter mine.''  
  
''I shall try not to disappoint you, mother'', smiled Arwen, then she turned to the youngling; ''Come with me, Lindir of Rhosgobel. I shall show you the best watching spot in the valley.''  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
That's all for today. I decided not to write monster chapters in this story. As for the other ones, got into a serious writer's block with both ''Riddles of Doom'' and ''Snow and Stones'', and I am acutally grateful for this idea to pop up, for so at least I can offer a little something to my faithful readers.  
  
  
End notes:  
  
1) Coirë is the Elven season of ''Stirring'', that follows the winter.  
2) The loa is the seasonal solar year of the Elves, containing six seasons and five additional days that make the 365-day year complete.  
3) The wizards.  
4) Wood-Elves.  
5) The literal meaning of Celebrían's name. 


	3. Chapter 2: The Foundling

INNOCENCE  
by Soledad Cartwright  
  
  
Disclaimer:  
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only Erestor's family belongs to me.  
  
Rating: PG for this chapter.  
  
Please read Warnings before the Prologue.  
  
Dedication: to Deborah, with heartfelt thanks for Elrond's background.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES:  
  
Now, before any lore-masters get upset with me: I *do* know that according ''Morgoth's Ring'' Elves are supposed to reach their maturity at the age of 50. It just seems too unrealistic to me that people who would live millennia, would be considered as adults with a mere 50 years. *This* is a part of ''official'' lore that I simply chose to ignore, presuming that any self-respecting Elf would need at least a couple of centuries to learn the history and the vast knowledge of their Elders, and that with time passing by, this period of their life would become even longer, since there will be more and more stuff to learn.  
  
So, for the sake of my stories I decided that while they *may* reach *physical* maturity in 100 years, to reach *legal* age would take at least two more centuries, depending on their education and the future position they will have to fill. Also, I chose a more adaptable system, where simple Mirkwood archers, for example, would reach their legal age at 200, being only in need to learn the old lays and some herbal lore, aside of archery practice, of course, while someone in Legolas' position would need a long and thorough education, that could last as long as 300-500 years, since he is supposed to become a King one day.  
  
Also, we have no idea, exactly *when* the Istari came to Middle-earth. The Unfinished Tales only says they appeared first around the year 1000 in the Third Age. But since they had gone around in the disguise of Men for a long time, it's a distinct possibility that they might have come earlier... and that the Wise of the Eldar such as Elrond and Celeborn would have known them long before the Kings of Arnor or Gondor. The date of their arrival plays no significant role for this tale, but I needed Lindir to arrive in Imladris at a fairly young age (for an Elf), so I've removed the coming of the Istari to the beginning of the Third Age, maybe around Elladan and Elrohir's birth or just a little later (1).  
  
  
CHAPTER TWO: THE FOUNDLING  
  
In the upper library of Elrond's home - the one that stood open for any visitors - the Lord of the Valley was already waiting for the wizard, and with him sat Glorfindel, who had joined him, taking a shortcut and an other entrance. They both rose to greet the guest, as it is custom among Elves, even if they are from a House of Kings, and Elrond, too, spoke the traditional words of greeting in Quenya; then they all got seated again, even Erestor, as it was his right, due both to his office and his status as a foster son. The twin sons of the Lord and Lady, however, though they had reached maturity already, were not invited to this private council, so they left after the official greetings.  
  
''Now, Master Aiwendil'', said Elrond, ''I understand that you have come to my home to make a request, am I right?''  
  
''You are'', the wizard responded curtly, rejecting the wine proffered by Erestor with a shake of his head.  
  
''You told me you have come to Imladris on behalf of the boy who has escorted you'', Celebrían took over. ''Who is he?''  
  
''Oh, my good Lady'', the wizard sighed tremendously, ''that is a hard question to answer, indeed.''  
  
Celebrían furrowed her smooth brow, seeing her suspicions affirmed. This seemed not good. Had the wizard truly sired the boy, the ramifications could be severe. The Lords of the West took not kindly when one of their subjects disobeyed orders.  
  
''Is he yours?'', she asked straight out, making both her husband and his counsellors gasp over her boldness, for it was never wise to challenge one of the Istari.  
  
But Radagast the Brown only shook his shaggy grey head. He did not seem offended at all by the uncharacteristically rude question. On the contrary - he almost seemed proud that they would think him to be the father of such a fair child.  
  
''Nay, my Lady, though I would be happy to call him my own'', he said with a rueful smile, for he knew what he longed for was not allowed him. ''But the truth is, I know not myself who he is. I found him as a mere baby, some 200 years ago - or was it 300? I cannot remember. He was not older than two, perhaps three moons at that time, laying on the forest floor, wrapped only in a blanket.''  
  
''Where did you find him?'', Celebrían asked.  
  
''On the east side of the Ered Luin's southern range'', the wizard answered. ''I had just arrived to Middle-earth and left the Havens, on the search of a place to begin my labours, when I heard him calling out to the birds in the wordless speech of the little ones. I followed his sweet little voice and there he was, lying upon the fallen leaves from the last season, playing and laughing with the thrushes.''  
  
''So he *is* an Elf'', Celebrían stated. The wizard nodded.  
  
''He seems to be of Noldorin descent, though he might have some Telerin blood, too. For not only is his hair more silver than golden, he also has a gift in music, be it song or flute-play, more so than any Elf I have ever met, even beyond the Sea.''  
  
''I wonder why he was left behind alone and by whom'', Elrond murmured, his heart going out for the poor youngling. To abandon a child was considered the greatest cruelty among Elves, and the memory of the small brothers of his mother who were left behind to die in the forest by the cruel sons of Fëanor was an echo of old pain in his family.  
  
''Mayhap it did not happen by choice'', said Celebrían. ''Many of our kin keep travelling to Elostirion to look into the Seeing Stone and to sing hymns to the Valar in order to find their liking. His parents might have been assaulted an forced to hide their child in the forest. At that time the Blue Mountains were unguarded by the Kings of the North-kingdom, and many fell creatures still dwellt in the woods.''  
  
''But if you saw that he was an Elf, why did you not bring him back to his own kin?'' Erestor asked the wizard. There was accusation in his tone, and Elrond glanced at his foster son with surprise. Erestor seldom lost his calm; the fate of the youngling must have awaken painful memories in his heart.  
  
Radagast gave the young Elf a piercing look.  
  
''To what end?'', he asked. ''He had no name, no family - that means no position among Elves. Who would have taken him into fostering care? The best he could have hoped for was to become a servant in some Elf Lord's household. Nay, I wanted to give him a better life.''  
  
''And so you kept him'', Glorfindel said. ''But how did you succeed in raising him? Elven children of such tender age need special nourishment and very, very thorough care. Without a mother, or at least a female nurse, 'tis a wonder in itself that he survived.''  
  
''Oh, but I had help'', the wizard smiled. ''I could not have done it by myself, for I knew naught about the nurturing of little elflings; not at that time, at least. I learnt much during those years, though.''  
  
''That I can imagine'', the ancient Elf grinned. ''Where have you lived with him ere you moved to Rhosgobel?''  
  
''On the best and safest place in Middle-earth'', Radagast answered, at once serious again. ''I brought him to Tyrn Gorthad(2), under Cardolan's hills by the Old Forest.''  
  
The Lord and the Lady of the Valley, exchanged blank looks, and Erestor did not seem to understand the significance of this statement either, but Glorfindel smiled as if lingering on old, pleasant (and yet so sorrowful) memories.  
  
''You brought him to Iarwain!'', he cried out in awe. ''To the homely house of the eldest and fatherless and his lovely wife, the River-daughter! The safest and most wonderful place in Middle-earth, indeed.''  
  
''With other words, you abandoned him'', said Erestor with a slight, hostile hiss.  
  
Celebrían shot him a warning glare that wuld have made both her grown sons cringle, but the wizard, fortunately, did not seem angry. He only shook his head.  
  
''How could I have done such thing?'', he answered with a question of his own. ''He had captured my old heart at first sight. So very small he was, lying upon my arm, so trusting and innocent. Nay, I could never have left him. I wanted to see him grow up, to teach him and to protect him. But most of all I wanted him to keep his innocence in a way that no Elf had been able to keep since the Time of Awakening.''  
  
''Then you truly brought him to the right place'', Glorfindel nodded, a smile full of hidden pain adorning his fair face. ''Have you stayed with him in Tyrn Gorthad?''  
  
''For many long seasons'', Radagast grinned. ''I heard later that Curunír had been rather upset at times when he failed to find me.''  
  
''That is an understatement'', murmured Elrond. ''According to Mithrandir he was fuming with wrath.''  
  
''Curunír believes that his labours are the only ones of importance'', the wizard shrugged. ''Yet he knows less about the secrets of Arda than he fancies himself. He might know all about pretty toys made by the hands of Elves and Men, but he is not the one the trees and the birds talk to. Nor am I his servant, even if he thinks himself above of the rest of us.''  
  
''Still'', Glorfindel remainded the wizard soberly,'' he *is* the head of your Order, and this gives him the right to interfere with your labours.''  
  
''He already has'', Radagast sighed. ''I am ordered to meet him in the South, near the watchtower of Orthanc, for he has work for me. I have to leave today. I have already delayed my journey far too long.''  
  
''In that case, you have chosen the ways around'', said Elrond a little surprised, ''in order to visit Imladris.''  
  
''That I did'', the wizard nodded, ''for I wish to leave the boy here for an uncertain amount of time. I cannot take him with me; it might be dangerous for him. Besides, should Curunír learn that I had ignored his orders this long on the behalf of a mere child, he would take Lindir from me - if only to punish me for my disobedience.''(3)  
  
''That might not even be his only reason'', Celebrían remarked with an uncharacteristically grim face - a sure sign that her maternal instincts signalled some sort of danger.  
  
Elrond shot her a questioning look.  
''What other reason could he possibly have?''  
  
''You have not seen the boy yet, my love'', Celebrían sighed. ''He is of great beauty; such as I have rarely glimpsed in my whole life.''  
  
''But my Lady, you cannot suppose the head of the Istari taking advantage of an under-aged elfling!'', Elrond murmured in utter bewilderment.  
  
''Maybe not'', said Celebrían thoughtfully, ''but he is known to love things of beauty. He might take the boy as he would take an artfully crafted chalice: to possess his beauty and to adorn his halls with him. Nay, Master Aiwendil is right. Curunír must *not* see this child. He might be powerful and wise, but there is little love in his heart. His halls are not the right place for a young child.''  
  
''But why did you not leave him with the Silvan folk?'', Glorfindel asked the wizard. ''Surely, Thranduil's realm would be more of his liking, having grown up in the forests.''  
  
''He would not be safe with them'', said Radagast with a heavy sigh. ''He is much too fair for his own good. I saw how all watched him with hungry eyes, every time we visited Thranduil's court. And there are Men, too, living in the woods, and they are even worse. Besides'', he added quietly, ''should Curunír learn of the boy, the Wood-Elves could not protect him. Thranduil has no such power that could withstand the Istari. Only here does it dwell, or with Círdan in the Havens - or in Lórien.''  
  
''And you chose *us* to keep him safe?'', Elrond asked. ''Why us? He would be safe on both of the other places, too.''  
  
''Protection is not the only thing he needs'', Radagast answered. ''He needs to learn, too.''  
  
Elrond frowned.  
''Have you not taught him?''  
  
''I taught him everything I could'', said the wizard, ''and he learnt even more while we dwelt under Iarwain's roof.. He learnt the music from the flowing and falling waters around Iarwain's house: from the soft waves of the river and from the splashing of rain on its surface. To sing he learnt from the winds and the birds and from the River-daughter herself. He knows the healing powers that are in the herbs and feels the changes of weather days before. He can talk to the trees like any Wood-Elf and tame wild beasts with a mere song. He is an easy child, quiet and pleasant-mannered - he would be no burden for you.''  
  
''We doubt it not'', Celebrían said gently, seeing the grief of the old man over having to give away his precious child. ''Yet there is more, is there? Something that bothers you greatly, does it?''  
  
''I meant no harm'', Radagast confessed sadly, ''yet I fear that in the folly of my old heart I *did* harm him. I wanted to keep him innocent, as innocent as his kin had been at the Time of Awakening ere Morgoth came, for I wanted to give your people back what they have lost - at least in this one child, to show them that there still *is* hope for all of you. Iarwain and the River-daughter certainly helped me to achieve *that*. But I only made him vulnerable. When we first ran into the Silvan folk near Rhosgobel, he fled up a tree like a squirrel. And I understood that I cannot separate him from his own people any longer, should he survive in Middle-earth.''  
  
''So you want us to take him into fostering care and teach him all that he could not have learnt from you?'', Elrond asked.  
  
''I beg you, my Lord'', the wizard said. ''No matter how the boy was brought up, he still *is* a Noldo; he belongs to a folk with a great history - and great skills that I cannot teach him, for I am a follower of Yavanna, not of Aulë. You would notice that he has a remarkable mind, worthy of learning from the greatest lore-master of this Age - not to mention Glorfindel whose memories reach back to the Dawn of Days.''  
  
Elrond thought about the wizard's request for a while. The others waited patiently for his decision, for as in all things in Imladris, he had the last word in this matter as well.  
  
''You can leave the youngling here, and I shall protect him as you have asked for, Master Aiwendil'', he finally said. ''We would also tutor him in all things necessary. I shall, however, *not* receive him as a foster son.''  
  
Every one in the library was slightly bewildered by this decision.  
  
''Why not?'', Celebrían asked with a frown. ''You did not hesitate to accept Erestor, if I have been told rightly.''  
  
''True'', nodded Elrond, ''But Erestor knew who his parents were. By taking him into my home I did not severe his roots. He might have grown up as my fosterling, but he always has been and always will be the son of Hargil, the jewel-smith of Eregion. I never wanted him to deny his true ancestry and to think that he would belong to *my* House(4).   
  
Nor can I take young Lindir the right to find his true kindred one day. Til then he shall be called Lindir of Rhosgobel in my house. For Master Aiwendil had been a true father to him, if not by flesh, so certainly by heart; and this should be appreciated.''  
  
/Can it be that Aiwendil actually blushed?/, wondered Celebrían, watching the slightly embarrassed face of the old man. /*Can* someone thus powerful feel like the rest of us? Shall we ever come to understand who - or *what* - the Istari truly are?/  
  
''I am deeply in your debt for ever, Lord Elrond'', the wizard bowed slightly. ''You shall see that the boy is obedient and eager to learn; though he may have some problems with the Grey Tongue at first. He only learnt it after we had moved to Rhosgobel.''  
  
''How have *you* spoken to him?'', Erestor asked a little surprised.  
  
The wizard gave him an insulted look.  
  
''Why, in Quenya, of course'', he said as if it were the most natural thing on Earth, regardless the fact that no-one spoke Quenya any more save in Valinor itself. ''What better than the Ancient Tongue to awake the music that dwelt in his heart?''  
  
''Wait! Are you saying that Quenya is the mother tongue of the boy?'', Glorfindel asked in awe. He had not heard of such a thing since he returned to Middle-earth for the first time.  
  
The wizard shrugged.  
''Aye, it is. Though, truth to be told, Iarwain and his wife spoiled his tongue a little with very old words, unknown even in the Blessed Realm by now, but else he *does* speak... and think... and dream in Quenya.''  
  
''Well... that is certainly unique'', Glorfindel stated. ''But he does understand Sindarin well enough to live among us, you say?''  
  
Radagast nodded, pride clearly written in his elderly face.  
  
''He does; as well as the Common speach. And he has the stunning ability to learn any song, or even a long lay, after having heard it only one time.''  
  
''This sounds like a born minstrel to me'', said Glorfindel, with a glance towards Elrond. ''We have not had a true one here since you founded Imladris. 'Tis a great treasure Master Aiwendil had gifted upon us.''  
  
''And I intend to protect it and handle it with great care'', Elrond answered. ''I was raised by one of the greatest singers of our kin (5), and though Elrohir does have a decent talent, he still cannot reach the height of Maglor's rare gift. Nor could I. Ever. But if this child is truly as gifted as Master Aiwendil says (not that I would doubt his word, but I know myself how parental pride can err on the behalf of a beloved child), then I finally might be able to gift the teachings of my foster father upon a worthy pupil.''  
  
''Yet I think not that you would be the right one to keep an eye on all his studies'', said Celebrían. ''He has to learn the natural flow of daily life in our valley, and its lord would be a much too frightening tutor in that.''  
  
''There are things a young child usually learns from his mother'', Elrond agreed, ''and I would be grateful for your assistance, my Lady.''  
  
But Celebrían only shook her head with a smile.  
  
''I am willing to take my share in the responsibility for this child, my Lord'', she answered kindly, ''for he no doubt shall need a confidant when feeling homesick or troubled or alone. But he will be an esquire, not a foster son, as you have decided. And as such, Erestor is the right person to tutor him.''  
  
The young seneschal have her a troubled gaze.  
''I, my Lady?''  
  
''You, of course'', Celebrían nodded. ''Who knows the intricacies of daily life in the valley better than you? Who better to teach him the duties of a young esquire than someone who had performed them to the greatest satisfaction of his Lord for many years? Besides, you can understand his loss better than any of us, save the Lord of the Valley himself, for you went through the same pain in your youth.''  
  
Erestor shifted in his seat uncomfortably.  
''Still... I know not, my Lady, if I truly am the right one for this responsibility...''  
  
''But *I do*'', Elrond interrupted. ''The Lady Celebrían is right. Our own children are much too young to care for him - or to earn his respect. Glorfindel and myself would most likely frighten him, should he have to deal with us every day. He is not used to have many people around him.''  
  
''You, on the other hand, are old enough to have sufficient authority'', Glorfindel added with a thoughtful nod. ''The Lord of the Valley and I can teach him the deep secrets of ancient lore; but you can tutor him in the even more important little things that will make him able to live among us. Yes, I do believe the Lady Celebrían is right. You shall be the right choice for this not-so-easy task.''  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
And so Erestor got a pupil. But what will Lindir say when they tell him about the decision? Next chapter will be up in a day or so.  
  
  
End notes:  
  
1. The sons of Elrond were born in the year 130 of the Third Age. Arwen was born in 241.  
2. The Barrow-Downs as they were called later. Iarwain is Tom Bombadil, in case any of you shouldn't know.  
3. According to the Unfinished Tales, it was Saruman who took Radagast with him as his aide - on a request of Yavanna.  
4. To understand Elrodn's motivation you'll have to read ''A Little Might Be Thought'' by Deborah. It can be found on this site.  
5. Maglor son of Fëanor, who raised Elrond and his brother Elros after having fought their parents for the Silmaril. 


	4. Chapter 3: Abandoned

INNOCENCE  
by Soledad Cartwright  
  
  
Disclaimer:  
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only Erestor's family belongs to me.  
  
Rating: PG for this chapter.  
  
Please read Warnings before the Prologue.  
  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES:  
  
Time: 532, 3rd Age  
Follows immediately Chapter 2. Lindir has to say farewell to the only father he knows. You heard it. Father. *Not* someting else. No way.  
  
And no, I have no idea *why* Saruman wanted to meet Radagast. But let's hope I'll figue it out later. This baby is planned to go as far as 30 chapters, after all (not to mention the Prologue and the Epilogue), so we have plenty of time.  
  
  
CHAPTER 3: ABANDONED  
  
Lindir of Rhosgobel sat in quiet awe with Arwen, Elrond's daughter on a cut-in stone bench, still warm from the last rays of the setting Sun, his long, graceful legs streched straight out before him, looking around the stacked terraces climbing up the cliff-side, admiring the ethereal beauty of the pearly white and pale gold stone buildings with their tall and narrow, arched windows, and listening to the musical sound of the many waterfalls. He had never seen a place quite like this.  
  
Arwen watched him from the side with fond interest. Although she preferred the Golden Wood of Lothlórien herself, just like her mother (they were very much alike in spirit, though Arwen inherited her fater's dark hair and noble features), she always found it intriguing to watch the amazed reactions of those who had seen her home for the first time. It made her proud of Imladris, the great accomplishment of her father.  
  
Elrond had left Gil-galad's court in Lindon after the fall of Eregion and the horrible death of Celebrimbor's people, the greatest of all Elven-smiths ever, save Fëanor himself. He wanted to build a safe haven against the darkness of the world in the recently-discovered, deep valley of Imladris, to save the lore and ancient wisdom of the Firstborn for the later times - and to raise in peace the child he had rescued from the smoldering ruins of Celebrimbor's city.  
  
Erestor was not the only orphant brought here, but all the others had at least someone of their kindred who came to Imladris and took care of them. Erestor had no-one, aside of Elrond himself; his unfailing loyalty towards the Lord of the Valley being the only thing to fill the aching holes of his heart.  
  
Arwen often discussed with her mother the possibility that Erestor might have felt abandoned when Elrond finally fell in love, married and had children of his own, though the young seneschal guarded his heart too carefully to allow them a look into its tormented depths. Still, sometimes Arwen thought that Imladris was much more of a home for Erestor than for herself.  
  
For Erestor had naught else.  
No other home.  
No other family.  
No other purpose.  
  
/It has to be a very lonely existence/, Arwen mused, watching the soft, delicate face of the youngling beside her, guessing how old he could be. He looked very young, but appearances could be deceiving by an Elf between physical and legal maturity, and the air of child-like innocence upon him made it even more difficult to guess his true age.  
  
Arwen never met any one like him, and she wished for a chance to know him better, for he intrigued her on many different levels: his beauty, his quiet manner (he had not uttered a single word since they came up here to enjoy the magnificent view), his shyness and the inner light that seemed to radiate from him, without him being even aware of it.  
  
In a way he reminded her of ancient Glorfindel - which was a mystery in itself, even though she knew that when Glorfindel was sent back to Middle-earth from Mandos' Halls, the lost innocence of the Firstborn who awoke at the waters of Cuiviénien had been restored in his heart. Yet this young elfling looked as someone who had never lost that innocence...  
  
She could not follow this intriguing path of thoughts, for she felt the calling of her mother in her mind - a treat only the two of them were able to share in the whole family. She knew her parents could exchange thoughts and feelings without spoken words by simply touching hands, but only she could feel the thoughts of Celebrían without physical contact and even over considerable distances.  
  
She rose fromt he stone bench with the natural grace of her fair kin and extended a hand towards the boy.  
  
''Come'', she said, ''we have to return to the house. We are wanted by our Elders.''  
  
Lindir accepted both the unspoken message and the proffered hand shyly, and so they returned to the house, without any further word.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Celebrían smiled involuntarily when she saw them enter the upper library, holding hands like small children. Arwen was very good with people - a talent she inherited from her father, as Celebrían preferred to stay in the background, watch quietly and share her insights with Elrond in private. Most of the time, anyway, though there were exceptions.  
  
Elrond gave the young Elf a thorough look and understood at once why Radagast wanted him well-protected. Due to his unique upbringing, Lindir of Rhosgobel was totally unaware of evil things - or evil intentions - all around the Earth, therefore he most certainly was not able to defend himself. And his exquisite beauty and his innocence would be too much a temptation for many, even those who were not necessarily evil.  
  
There was such a thing as wrongs born of weakness, as Elrond very well knew. Such one had turned their last victory over the darkness into a defeat.  
  
Aye, they had to protect this child - and also cheerish this rare gift the wizard gave them in trust. Celebrían was right saying that he was to be shielded from greedy eyes - and he most definitely needed a thorough education in the things of daily life among his own kin. Erestor, master of the daily routine in the valley, would provide it.  
  
/And mayhap it would do equally good for Erestor himself to have some company/, he thought, admiring his wife's insight once more. /*If* he will be able to open up a little, that is./  
  
He turned to the youngling who still clutched desperately Arwen's hand, as if he hoped for protection from her side, and smiled encouraging at him.  
  
''Welcome to Imladris, Lindir of Rhosgobel. I understand that my daughter has shown you the best watching spot in the valley. Did you enjoy the view?''  
  
Lindir nodded wordlessly, wide eyes still full of fearful anticipation. He clearly felt that something unpleasant was about to happen. Elrond glanced at Radagast to see if the wizard wanted to break the hard news to the boy himself, but the old man looked guiltily aside.  
  
Elrond surpressed a sigh. He hated to be the messenger of ill tidings, but he child had to be told about the decision that would change his whole life, and Aiwendil obviously could not bring it upon his heart to tell him of it. For one of the Wise, the wizard seemed to be fully enthralled by the youngling. In a good way, for sure, but his feelings still *did* cloud his judgement.  
  
''Lindir'', the Lord of the Valley said as gently as he could manage, ''mayhap you have already heard that Master Aiwendil shall have important tasks to perform, soon.''  
  
The boy nodded, his eyes lingering upon the guilty face of the old man; in his eyes clearly shone his love for the wizard who had been the only father he had ever known.  
  
''Alas, these labours of his are such that you cannot go with him this time'', Elrond continued, searching carefully for the right words. ''So he asked the Lady Celebrían and me to take care of you for a while. You shall stay here, with us, until he is done with his tasks and comes back for you.''  
  
Lindir let go of Arwen's hand, took a step backwards and shook his head in wordless despair, his eyes like those of a wounded dear. The anguish on that vulnerable face almost broke all their hearts.  
  
Radagast gathered his inner strength (which was considerable, unless it came to his young charge) and took the trembling boy in his big arms.  
  
''It has to be, little one'', he murmured, voice breaking alongside his old heart as the child all but burrowed himself into the rough folds of his heavy brown robe. ''I cannot protect you there where I have to go. But you shall be safe in the care of the Lord and the Lady, and this would comfort me in my grief.''  
  
He held the boy at arm's length and looked at his crumpled face with gentle sadness.  
  
''Lindir, listen to me. I have to leave, and I have to go now. 'Tis not a thing I can change. But I only shall have peace on my long and tiresome journey when I know that you are safe. Do you understand?''  
  
The youngling nodded, swallowing his tears.  
He would not cry before the eyes of all these strangers.  
Not yet.  
Not now.  
  
''I shall come back to see you as soon and as often as I can'', the wizard continued, ''but I cannot say yet how soon or how often it would be. For I have difficult tasks before me that might be dangerous. I know not. But from now on, Imladris is your home, for an amount of time. 'Tis for your own good, child. Here you shall learn the ways of your own people and many, many other things...''  
  
Lindir gave no answer. He only looked at the old man, the only family he had ever known, with heart-wrenching sadness. Radagast sighed.  
  
''Believe me, 'tis not easy for me either. But I *need* to know that you are safe. Do you promise me to stay here and follow the teachings of the Lord and the Lady and all the people they see fit to tutor you? Will you be obedient and wait here until I can come back for you?''  
  
Lindir nodded mutely, his young heart visibly breaking before their eyes. He threw his slender arms around the wizard's neck in a desperate hug, rubbing his soft cheek against the coarse grey beard of the old man, his entire body shaking with surpressed sobs.  
  
But no sound, not a single tear found its way to the outside. It was eerie. Elrond began to doubt the wisdom of their agreement, but it was too late to re-think it. The damage was already done.  
  
''I am very proud of you, Lindir'', Radagast murmured softly, kissing the top of the golden head. ''So very proud, my dear child. We shall walk the forests together again one day. I promise.''  
  
Lindir sighed, resting his face on the wizard's shoulder for a moment. Then he stepped back from his old mentor with a strangely blank face and gave one slight nod. Was it as promise or simple resignation, no-one could tell.  
  
Not wanting to prolong the painful scene any further, Radagast took his leave from the Lord and the Lady of the Valley and Glorfindel escorted him back to the paved courtyard where Elladan and Elrohir were already waiting with his horse. The wizard mounted, looked up to the balcony one more time to wave his final farewell to the silently watching Lindir, then rode out of Imladris at great speed, without looking back.  
  
Arwen escorted the youngling back to the upper library and urged him to take a seat, but Lindir refused with a shake of his head. Elrond sighed. This was going to be a lot harder than they had thought.  
  
Reaching for Celebrían's hand for some much-needed moral support, he turned to the boy again.  
''It has been decided that you should be taught in ancient lore by the Lord Glorfindel and myself.''  
  
Lindir gave no reaction to that.  
  
''Since it has been the wish of Master Aiwendil that you become an esquire, though, I have chosen a tutor for you who shall instruct you in the ways of our people and in the customs of the valley.''  
  
Still no reaction.  
  
''Erestor son of Hargil is not only my seneschal, he is also my foster son'', Elrond continued, ''who has come to my house very much like you. He has seen much, and he knows the life of the valley better than even the Lady or myself. It would do you good to follow his instructions.''  
  
Lindir nodded, watching quietly the face of the one who will be the master of his life for an as-yet-unknown amount of time. Erestor was a young Elf, tall and dark-haired as the Noldor mostly were, and fair-faced as all Elves are. He looked friendly enough; but in his clear grey eyes there was much sadness and pain, and his forehead was marred with the paled scar of a vicious old injury.  
  
''I shall prepare a room for you, near my own chambers so that you can find me every time when something bothers you'', he promised. ''Have you brought any baggage with you?''  
  
Lindir nodded. Erestor withstand the urge to roll his eyes. It seemed he would have to do all the talking for quite some time. This was something he was not used to do.  
  
And the exact reason why the Lady suggested *him* to become the boy's tutor.  
  
''Well, then, let us go to the stables and collect your saddle bags'', he said with a sigh of slight impatience (and a lot of resignation), and walked out of the library.  
  
Lindir followed him in wordless obedience.  
  
Elrond looked at his wife in admiration.  
''My Lady'', he said, ''are you sure that the wickedness of the Galadhrim - who are a strange lot as I am told - had not infested you in all those seasons you have spent among them? This was the most ingenius plot I have ever witnessed to unfold - and it seems to work just fine. Erestor looks already more alive than he has been during the last hundred years.''  
  
''He has a purpose now, one more personal than simply running our house'', answered Celebrían with a miscievous smile, ''and young Lindir will be quite a challenge, I deem. If he wants to achieve anything with the boy, Erestor shall have to come out of the shell he had built around himself.''  
  
''Shall we help him?'', Arwen asked, her eyes equally sparkling. Celebrían shook her head.  
  
''Nay, that would make Lindir feel crowded. Let them work it out for themselves; they have all the time in the world. And tell your brothers to stay away from the boy. The last thing we need is them frighten him out of his mind.''  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
About two hours later, when he finally completed his daily tasks and was ready to retire for a well-deserved rest, Erestor made an added turn on his way from the Lord's study to his own chambers, in order to check on his young charge. He truly felt for the boy who had been torn away from his life, his home, his only family and given in the hands of complete strangers.  
  
If any one, Erestor surely knew the feeling, in spite of Elrond's gentle and thorough care in his youth. He did find a new home in Imladris, but it did *not* mean that he ever stopped to miss the first one.  
It did not stop the nightmares, either. Not then, not now, half an Age later. They would ever stay his most faithful company.  
  
He had learnt to live with the loneliness. He had learnt to live with the nightmares. He had his vengeance, and he knew he would pick up his weapons again, should the need arise. But he had sworn never to have a family. Never to father any children, who could share his own fate one day. No child would go through the same hell because of him.  
  
That was why he hesitated to accept the responsibility for young Lindir. The boy had already lost one whom he depended on. He did not want the boy to become fond of him. He had learnt how fragile life was, even that of Elves. He had seen it in the brutal massacre in Eregion and in the even more brutal battle upon Dagorlad. He did not want any one to grieve over him the same way he still grieved over his parents and siblings. Never.  
  
He entered the large, airy room through one of the tall, arched window-entrances, opening to an inner garden. He was not surprised to see that the saddle-bags were unpacked, thrown carelessly to the stone-paved floor where they had put them down hours earlier. The beutifully-carved, square bed was empty, its snow-white sheets untouched. Lindir was no-where to see.  
  
Erestor sighed and tried to think clearly. Where could the boy be? He knew no-one in the valley, and the Lady Arwen, the only one he seemed to like, was with her mother. Yet the boy needed a friend in his grief. That left only one opportunity.  
  
Erestor left the bedchamber of his charge again and went straight to the stables. The boy might not know where exactly his own trusted steed was put, but he knew the beasts well enough to find one in particular. Especially one that belonged to him.  
  
He entered the gate leading to the stables' area, crossing the paddock that was now empty, the horses being brought indoors for the still chilly night and walked around the boxes where the magnificent horses of Elrond's household stood. Though he had known almost all of them since the day of their birth, he paused for a moment, enraptured by their beauty himself.  
  
He stopped by his own steed, a beautiful white one, whispering softly to it, and the horse listened, ears flicking forward, gently nudging his face with its soft nose. Erestor hugged the neck of the faithful beast and reasted his face for a moment on the soft mane. He knew the comfort of having such a friend, himself.  
  
Quiet, sniffing noises remembered him why he was here. He patted the neck of the horse and took a look around. In one of the furthest boxes he finally found the smaller horse that had brought their young guest to Imladris shortly before sunset. The horse was resting on the ground, and a slim figure was laying on his side, face burrowed in the short, dark mane, narrow shoulders shaking with deep, almost soundless sobs.  
  
Erestor sighed. It was to be expected. The boy had taken the departure of Aiwendil much too calmly. It was only a matter of time for him to break down.  
  
The seneschal of Elrond's house sat down next to the sobbing youngster and gathered the lithe frame in his arms. Lindir did not resist. He went limp in the safety of his new mentor's embrace and let his tears flow freely.  
  
Erestor waited patiently for him to calm down again. It took quite some time, but finally the boy's tears ceased flowing and he looked at the older Elf with reddened eyes. Reddened, but not swollen, in spite of having wept so long. It was strange.  
  
''Feeling better?'', Erestor asked gently, wiping away the last tears with his fingers. Lindir nodded. ''Good. Then we might go back to the house and put you in bed for the night?''  
  
Lindir nodded again and let himself be pulled to his feet. He followed Erestor obediently (after all he had promised Radagast to bee good), but in the door he paused and looked back at his horse - his only friend in this valley full of strangers - longingly.  
  
''You can come to him again tomorrow'', Erestor promised. ''In fact, caring for the horses *is* one ofthe duties of an esquire. You shall see, we have some wondrous ones here.''  
  
A ghost of a smile appeared for a moment on the reddened face of the youngling and Erestor smiled back, relieved.  
  
''Your horse is a nice one, too'', he said. ''What's his name?''  
  
Lindir sighed, tearing his gaze away from his faithful beast.  
''T-tinwë'', he answered.  
  
This was the last word any one in the valley had heard from him for a long time.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
What, no footnotes this time?  
No, ideed. I thought you guys deserve a break. 


	5. Chapter 4 Pt 1: The Eve of Enderi 1

INNOCENCE  
by Soledad Cartwright  
  
  
Disclaimer:  
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Fíriel was borrowed from Deborah's excellent story ''A Little Might Be Thought'', albeit she has no name there. Only Erestor's family belongs to me.  
  
Rating: PG-13 for this chapter.  
  
Please read Warnings before the Prologue.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES:  
Time: 533, 3rd Age  
Summary: the community of Imladris celebrates the ritual of seasonal turning on the Eve of Enderi, the three middle days of the Elven seasonal year. An old friend of Lórien makes an appearance and we meet a survivor of Tol Sirion.  
This is Part One from the 4th chapter - it turned out too long, so I broke it into two parts.  
  
Many thanks to the helpful members of the Henneth Annun discussion group who helped me to find the Quenya poems to this story.  
Not beta-ed, so sorry for any mistakes.  
  
  
CHAPTER 4: THE EVE OF ENDERI - PART ONE  
  
[The 54th day of yávië(1), in the year 532 of the Third Age]  
  
The rich brown, golden and deep burgundy colours of autumn lent a spectacular sight to the terraces of Imladris, and the approaching sunset only deepened those colours. Pausing for a few moments from his increasingly hectic domestic activities, Erestor sat on a low stone bench in the porch looking to the West, listening to the sweet music that came up to his watchpost from one of the inner gardens.  
  
From his resting place up there he could see the musicians as well: a tall, dark-haired young Elf, playing his wonderfully-crafted, silver-stringed harp with skilled fingers, and an even younger, more slender one playing a simple silver flute, his unbraided hair falling freely upon his narrow shoulders like a pale silk curtain.  
  
Erestor was glad that his young charge, at least, found some comfort in his music. The last three and a half seasons had been difficult. Lindir still stubbornly refused to speak, though he did sing sometimes, mostly when he was alone in one of his many hiding places, and all were enraptured with the sweetness of his voice. He did everything Erestor told him to do, listened carefully to Elrond or Glorfindel when they taught him, but his only reactions so far had been a nod or a shrug or a shake of his head.  
  
He had, however, developed a strange friendship with Elrohir during their shared love for music. Elrohir, always the more light-hearted, more playful one of Elrond's sons, discovered the youngling's gift after a mere few days, and did not let shake himself off by Lindir's demeanor. When he was confronted with stubborn silence, just like the others, he found a different approach. He brought out his harp, sat in the garden before Lindir's balcony, and simply played every evening, every song he had ever heard - and some of his own, too.  
  
It took him eleven days, but finally he cajoled the youngling out of his solastice. Lindir appeared in one of the window-entrances, as if magically drawned by the sweet harmonies, stood there for a while, then silently stepped out into the garden and sat town to Elrohir's feet. He showed no other reaction, but from that day on he would come out every night, sitting at Elrohir's feet and listening to his music.  
  
And so on it went during the whole season of coirë. Lindir obeyed Erestor in every thing, he would partake in the shared work and other activities of the household, listened to Elrohir's music under the starlit sky - but he would not speak. Not a single word.  
  
By then, Elrond and Celebrían had understood that this was no mere stubbornness from the boy's side. It was the physical manifestation of the shock over having been separated from Radagast and from his earlier life - a sign that they still were but strangers to him, whom he did not trust. The Lord and the Lady knew not how to heal him, for such things could not be forced. They only hoped that Elrohir might find a way to his heart.  
  
The day of mettarë(2) arrived, and the cycle of seasons from the recent *loa* was now complete, when Erestor, to his mild surprise, found his young charge in his own study. Lindir was sitting on a low, wooden stool Erestor only used to step on when he wanted to reach the rarely-needed books on the top shelf and played on his silver flute.  
  
It was a simple-looking instrument for the untrained eye, but Erestor was born in the city of Celebrimbor and spent his childhood among the best jewel-smiths of the Noldor. He knew the craftsmanship of Valinor when he saw it. He was sure the flute had once belonged to Aiwendil who brought it with him from the Blessed Realm - and gave it to the boy when he detected Lindir's rare gift in music.  
  
Voicing his guess, he was rewarded with one of Lindir's shy smiles, and the youngling offered him the instrument for a thorough study. Erestor turned it between his fingers in awe, admiring the magnificent work that was put into such a seemingly simple form, muttering half-forgotten words of praise that he hed heard at times when the Lord Celebrimbor or one of the Dwarves visited his father's workshop - for Hargil had been considered one of the best of his generation and his work highly appreciated.  
  
This seemed to catch Lindir's interest, for he looked at his tutor with a curiously arched eyebrow, and Erestor sat down with a sigh and told him some of his more happy memories from a childhood drowned in blood and fire. Lindir listened to him with rapt interest - mayhap this was his first glimpse of family life - and mutely nudged him to continue when he stopped.  
  
But Erestor was tired from a long day's work and the memories drained him. He promised Lindir to tell him more another time and retreated to his own bedchamber, though he suspected that his sleep would not be restful.  
  
And he guessed rightly. The dreams came back again, as they used to at this particular time of the year, for this was the eve of *yestarë*(3), the first day of the new year, and that was the day when Ost-in-Edhil had been burnt to the ground and her people slain.  
  
But this time something filtered through the horrible noise and all-too-vivid images of the massacre that had happened many centuries ago: a voice, coming from afar, so soft and sweet as he had never heard, save mayhap the lullabies of his mother. It sang something in Quenya, but the words of the Noble Tognue sounded even more ancient than usually, as if the singer would have used an old, forgotten dialect.  
  
A Elentári Tintalle   
silmarin penda mírea   
menello alcar eldion!   
Haiyanna palantírina   
aldarembie endorillor   
Fanoiolosse, len linduvan   
nive ear, simen nive earon!(4)   
  
It was the first time that he had heard Lindir's voice since his arrival to Imladris. For it was Lindir, of course, sitting on a chest near the windows, his ancient song melding seamlessly with the music of the waterfalls, his long, pale gold hair gleaming like silver in the moonlight.  
  
Erestor dared not to move, in fact he barely dared to breathe, fearing that knowing he was awake would shy the youngling away. But once again he underestimated Lindir's sensitivity. It seemed, the boy was well aware of his awakening, for he finished his song, gave him one of his shy, hesitant smiles and disappeared in the night like a ghost.  
  
Still, all were relieved that Lindir at least was able to use his voice again, even if he was only willing to express himself in songs. For the songs he knew were so ancient that no-one had ever heard them before (save Glorfindel, of course, and Elrond himself, who had learnt more from his foster father than he was able - or ready - to share with even his own family), and he shared them with the household readily, taking pleasure in their obvious joy.  
  
The music lessons with Elrond became truly exciting after that, and the Lord of the Valely enjoyed greatly to teach the gifted youngling the fine points of making a new song. Lindir listened to him intently, as it was his way, and followed the instructions he was given, but no new song had been made by him, not yet at least, only lovely pieces of music that he played on his Valinorean flute, and Elrohir learnt from him these short and wondrously light-hearted pieces, and they made music together almost every day and became friends - well, in a way.  
  
For music was about the only thing they could really share, Lindir not being able to speak still, shrinking back in muted horror when someone tried to make him even touch any weapons, so archery lessons - one of the most beloved pastimes of the twins - were out of the question. And Glorfindel would shake his head in silent exasperation and mumbling something about ''brick-headed Istari'' under his breath, clearly aiming his anger against Radagast, who had done every possible thing to make the youngling truly helpless.  
  
'''Twas the only sensible thing from him to bring the boy here'', the ancient Elf told Elrond, Celebrían and Erestor during one of their concerned conversations about Lindir's fate. ''He would not stand a chance in the outside world, not even in peacetime. He would be in need of protection all his life, unless he gets over his fear and disgust towards weapons.''  
  
Remembering this, Erestor sighed and left his lonely watchpost to return to his work. The people were about to return from the harvest, and there was a merry feast to be hold in the Great Hall of Elrond's house that needed careful preparations. And after the feast, there would be a sacred ritual to perform, with the celebratory dance in the moonlight; and after that there would be singing and tale-telling in the Hall of Fire; for this was the ever of the *enderi*, the three middle days of the seasonal year, when all work ceased and songs and wine and merriment filled day and night, ere the *lasse-lanta* (leaf-fall), the season of fading began.  
  
There was much work for Erestor to do, and he was truly exhausted when finally the silver bells of the house chimed, calling Elrond's household and the guests of honour to the dining hall. There were no outside guests in these days, save a tall, broad-shouldered Elf, wearing the silvery green tunic and soft grey cloak of Lórien. His long, ash blond hair was artfully braided away from his face and held together by silver clasps, wrought in the shape of autumn leaves.  
  
Erestor recognized Haldir of Lórien, whom he had known since the end of the Second Age, the Galadhrim being one of the lead archers of King Amdír who had ruled the Golden Wood at that time. Now he served the Lady Galadriel, to Erestor's slight dismay - though Haldir himself liked to say that he mostly served the Golden Wood and its people. The Lórien Elf was Erestor's senior by several centuries, but still young in Elven terms, though his broad features made him look older. Erestor liked him, and even more did he like Haldir's brothers, playful Rúmil and shy Orophin, whom he met once while visiting Lórien on some errand, given him by Elrond.  
  
To make for the guests more room on Elrond's side, his children were now seated among the household, and Erestor let himself relax a little, seeing that Elladan and Elrohir put Lindir between the two of them, where he would feel safe among all these strangers.  
  
When everyone was seated, Elrond and Celebrían rose from their seats to invoke the blessings of the Valar, as it had been custom among the Eldar ever since the first High-Elves set foot in the Blessed Realm. They raised their goblets and spoke as if with one voice:  
  
Come to us from the Earth's four quarters,  
Earth and Air and Fire and Water,  
Bring your gifts to our home,  
With the blessings of Manwë, Lord of Winds,  
With the blessigns of Yavanna, Giver of Fruits,  
With the blessings of Aurín Maiden of Fire,  
With the blessings of Ulmo, Lord of Waters  
Let us bring them in.(5)  
  
''So be it!'', the guests answered with one voice, and the feast began.  
All the fruits of the Earth were represented, and the fine bread, made from the new flour, and the grapes that were brought in during that very afternoon, and the first bottle of the new feywine made in the last *lairë*(6). It was fresh and deceivingly strong, and Erestor devoured it very slowly, not wanting to get drunk, for he had to take part in the upcoming ritual - a part which included some ritual fighting, too, so he had to remain sober, at least for the time being.  
  
After the meal they all left the house, and Erestor hurried forward to the Place of Festival, ahead of everyone else, to prepare for the other celebrant's arrival. When they, too, arrived, trying to enter into the presence of the ancient trees, he raised both his hands in a forbidding gesture - for he was playing the role of the Corn Lord, the King of Yávië, and it was his right to deny them entrance.  
  
He raised his hands and spoke in a clear, strong voice:  
  
By my right as Kind, I deny you entrance.  
Those of Lairë, keep your distance;  
Your time has past,  
Here Yávië still holds fast,  
Here no Quellë(7) yet has come to pass.  
  
The circle of celebrants opened and gave way to Haldir, who - as the guest of honour - was offered the part of the Oak Lord, King of the fading season, which all found very appropriate. For who else could have been more fitting for it than a Galadhrim?  
  
The Lórien Elf came forth to challenge the Corn Lord to battle for the right to enter the trees, speaking the ancient words:  
  
Your rival, Corn Lord, does issue challenge.  
Your time is past, our right I revenge.  
For our right to enter I shall fight,  
And change shall come, as day to night.  
  
The time-honoured challenge did have some strange undertones this year, for all these seasonal rituals had originally come from the Wood-Elves, often looked down at by the Eldar; it was the influence of Celebrían, daughter of the last great Sindarin king in Middle-earth that they were celebrated in Imladris at all. That was why the words were spoken in Sindarin, not in Quenya, save the names of the seasons.  
  
Erestor appreciated the irony of the situation with a nod and spoke in answer:  
  
Enter then this grove, and fight,  
This challenge is yours by right.  
  
The whole community entered the grove under the gigantic oak, called the Tree lord by Imaldris' folk, and Erestor and Haldir performed the ritual fight with long, polished wooden staffs, the ancient weapon of Elves ere they were taught to work with metals by Aulë. Though a ritual issue, Erestor was determined to give Haldir a good fight nonetheless, albeit he knew he could stand no chance against the older, stronger, more experienced Lórien Elf. While he seldom had the chance to practice his weapons' skills, Haldir, captain of Lórien's border guards, had remained a warrior through all those years, and would have beaten him, even if the ritual had not demanded from him to lose.  
  
Still, he tried everything to make Haldir his victory costly, and even won the upper hand for a while (no doubt mostly because Haldir was surprised by his vehemence), but eventually the Lórien Elf got hold of him and forced him down.  
''Yield, Corn Lord'', he said, panting. ''Your time is past.''  
  
Erestor had a hard time to breath, too; a sudden feeling of anger filled his heart about being beaten, more so when he saw the slight disappointment on Lindir's young face. Though the boy was properly taught about the nature of the ritual, it still seemed to displease her that his tutor had lost.  
  
Erestor shook his head to cast these unbecoming thoughts away and remainded himself the ritual words he had to speak.  
  
I return where Yávië still holds fast.  
For now you have your place of Anor,  
By fighting me, you think you have won,  
But fighting me shall carry its cost  
And beating me, you still have lost.  
  
At that, haldir let Erestor up; he gave Lindir an encouraging smile, sounded the horn of tree-bark that was reached him, and stalked out of the grove. Behind the oak, he took off the cloak of the Corn Lord and now, that his part in the ritual was done, rejoined the festivities, taking the place that Lindir faithfully kept free for him.  
  
Elrond now came forth, leading Arwen by the hand, who was clad in twilight grey and moonlight silver; and Haldir knelt before her, and Arwen crowned him with a wreath of autumn leaves and spoke:  
  
My lord, I great you as Maiden of Twilight.  
I welcome you and the gift that you bring might.  
May your reign be pleasant and fruitful and logn  
Against the cold of Hrívië(8) may it hold strong.  
  
Then Arwen brought Haldir up to Celebrían who sat upon a throne carved from a mighty tree-trunk under the oak and presented him and spoke:  
  
Mother, here I bring our new lord;  
The King of Yávië is beaten and forth.  
  
Celebrían rose and raised her hand in the ancient gesture of blessing. Her clear, ringing voice filled the lighting, and there was a power in it that rarely could be felt from the ever-friendly, soft-speaking Lady of the Valley.  
  
Daughter, in your judgement I trust;  
And you, we all know, are true and just.  
Let us now embrace the joy of Middle Days,  
While the waning Sun in our midst still stays.  
  
Glorfindel, the Master of the Festival, blew his horn, and at this sign Elrohir and Lindir, who were given the honour to make the music to the moonlight dance, brought their instruments forth and began to play. Elrond and Celebrían opened the Dance of Twilight, as always, followed by Arwen and Haldir, then all the others on the lighting joined in, forming several circles, one inside another, moving gracefully in opposite directions around the giant oak like the twirling rings of maelstrom, first slowly then with a quickening speed, gliding upon the now-yellow grass along each other like a light wind, barely touching, and yet exchanging feather-light, fleeting kisses on cheeks or lips when coming side by side woith a friend or a lover or somebody who could become one.  
  
After the Dance every one returned to the house, trying to find a good place in the Hall of Fire, for as on all major feasts, singing and tale-telling and merriment was to come. More of the strong, sweet feywine was brought, this time the older one, and large plates with piles of seed cake in honey, a favourite in Imladris. Erestor made sure that Lindir was safely seated aside Arwen, then he retreated to his usual spot, in the shadow of a huge pillar, where he could watch and listen, without being watched.  
  
The Lord of the Valley himself opened the nightly festivities by sitting down on his customary place, preparing to play his silver-stringed, swan-shaped harp, masterfully crafted in Lindon more than a whole Age earlier, by the skilled hands of Círdan's craftsmen. Elrond was known of his musical skills, having been taught by the greatest singer of the Noldor, yet he rarely performed in public, for the memories of his tutor were stained with darkness and pain. Yet on major feasts he let himself be persuaded sometimes into playing, mostly by Celebrían, who loved to listen to his music.  
  
On his side a tall, proud woman stood, dark-haired and grey-eyed, her elegant, angular face marred by multiple scars of old injuries and deeplines of old grief and sorrow: Fíriel(9), one of the very few survivors of Tol Sirion, the city of Elrond's childhood, destroyed by the maddened sons of Fëanor. Her tale was a bitter one, even more so than Elrond's own, for she had lost her entire family by the hands of the Kinslayers, including her children, one of whoom had barely been born at that time. It was a wonder in itself that she survived at all, to be found by Gil-galad's people, burnt beyond recognition, most of her bones broken from having srpung from the roof of her burning house, more dead than alive. (10)  
  
Still, by sheer willpower she survived and was brought to Gil-galad's court and there she slowly recovered, albeit the burn marks and scars had not completely faded from her marred skin. Her strength and healing skills impressed the High King greatly, and though she was of low birth, he kept her in his court, where they always had need of a skilled healer, and even made her his consort for a while - til Elrond came to Lindon.  
  
Regardless of Fíriel being considerably older than the young Half-Elf, the two survivors of Sirion became close friends and even occasional lovers, ere Elrond would become involved with the High King himself. Fíriel felt no jealousy, nor fell it har for her to retreat, for her affair with Gil-galad was a matter of comfort and convenience, and she could very well go on without it.  
  
The three of them remained friends, but when Elrond left Gil-galad's court to bould the safe haven of Imladris, Fíriel followed his summoning and joined his household which at that time contained Glorfindel only. For quite some time she had been Elrond's consort and the highly respected head of healers in the valley. She even followed him to the Battle upon Dagorlad, treating the wounded regarldess of her own safety, and some said that Elrond would not have survived withnessing the horrible death of Gil-galad by Sauron's hand without her help.  
  
It was Fíriel, too, who had helped Elrond raising Erestor when he was brought to Imladris as a young elfling, scared out of his mind and grief-stricken beyond comfort. Yet in spite of their very similar fate, they never came close, for Fíriel's hatred against the House of Fëanor ran very deep, and though she felt pity for the boy and treated him fairly, she could never fell aught but despise towards any one whose family served that House, even though Celebrimbor had no part in the destruction of her home.  
  
Erestor understood that and did not press the matter - he had little love for the proud but hard and bitter woman himself, and no-one could have replaced his own mother anyway. Sometimes he yearned to hear Nimuial's gentle laughter again, her merry songs that made the darkness of the night free of any fear, to feel her soft touch upon his face. His memories of his parents were fading, no matter how desperately he tried to hold onto them; those of his mother even more than those of his father, and this pained him greatly. But at least he had found a new home, thank to Elrond, and even if Fíriel liked him not, she was always fair and honest to him.  
  
Now Fyriel came forth, and while Elrond handled his harp masterfully, she sang in her strong, crystal clear voice an ancient song, one that was brought back from the Blessed Realm before heer birth - one that the two of them had often sung in Gil-galad's court. The yougner Elves listened to it with interest, but in the deep eyes of Glorfindel, who had seen the undying lifht of Valinor that was no more, there lay sorrow, fathomless and ever-lasting like the longing of Elves after the Sea.  
  
Man cenuva fánë cirya   
métima hrestallo círa,  
i fairi nécë  
ringa súmaryassë   
ve maiwi yaimië?   
  
  
Man tiruva fána cirya,  
wilwarin wilwa,  
ëar-celumessen  
rámainen elvië  
ëar falastala,  
  
winga hlápula  
rámar sisílala,  
cálë fifírula?  
  
Man hlaruva rávëa súrë  
ve tauri lillassië,  
ninqui carcar yarra  
isilmë ilcalassë,  
isilmë pícalassë,  
isilmë lantalassë  
ve loicolícuma;  
raumo nurrua,  
undumë rúma?  
  
Man cenuva lumbor ahosta  
Menel acúna   
  
ruxal' ambonnar,  
ëar amortala,  
undumë hácala,  
enwina lúmë  
elenillor pella  
talta-taltala  
atalantië mindonnar?  
  
Man tiruva rácina cirya  
ondolissë mornë  
nu fanyarë rúcina,  
anar púrëa tihta  
axor ilcalannar  
métim' auressë?  
Man cenuva métim' andúnë?  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
END NOTES:  
(For fanatics ony - otherwise simply skip them. I promise the next part wird be more exciting, with Elrohir getting drunk and Elladan getting horny and Erestor getting laid, and poor Lindir... well, you just will have come back and take a look.)  
  
1. yávië = the 54-day-long autumn season   
2. mettarë = the last day of the seasonal year; it closes the stirring season  
3. yestarë = the first day of the seasonal year, introduces the spring season  
4. This is the Quenya translation of ''A Elbereth Gilthoniel'', found on the Mellonath Daeron linguistical website  
5. The whole Endari Festival was created more or less loosely based on Juniper's pagan rituals (different ones), found on her website called ''A Sacred Place in the Wood Between the Worlds''. I did not copy any of these particular rituals, only mixed up a few of her chants to create new stanzas, with the names of the Valar inserted. I know it's crude, but it was the best I could do.  
6. lairë = the 72-day-long summer season  
7. quellë = the 54-day-long fading season  
8. hrívie = the 72-day-long winter season  
9. Fíriel is only mentioned by Tolkien as the singer of a particular song that is therefore called ''The Song of Fíriel. I found the name pretty, so I took it for the character.  
10. Those who have read ''A Little Might Be Thought'' by Deborah, would surely remember this particular scene.  
  
THE TRANSLATION OF THE SONG:  
(This is not the actual ''Fíriel's Song'', but something called The Markirya Poem. I chose it because I found that it would fit the life in Lindon. The poem and liguistical references to it can be found on the Ardalambion page - deep bows to Mr. Fauskanger)  
  
Who shall see a white ship leave the last shore, the pale phantoms in her cold bosom like gulls wailing?   
Who shall heed a white ship, vague as a butterfly, in the flowing sea on wings like stars, the sea surging, the foam blowing, the wings shining, the light fading?  
Who shall hear the wind roaring like leaves of forests; the white rocks snarling in the moon gleaming, in the moon waning, in the moon falling a corpse-candle; the storm mumbling, the abyss moving?  
Who shall see the clouds gather, the heavens bending upon crumbling hills, the sea heaving, the abyss yawning, the old darkness beyond the stars falling upon fallen towers?  
Who shall heed a broken ship on the black rocks under broken skies, a bleared sun blinking on bones gleaming in the last morning?  
Who shall see the last evening? 


	6. Chapter 4 Pt 2: The Eve of Enderi 2

INNOCENCE  
by Soledad Cartwright  
  
  
Disclaimer:  
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Fíriel was borrowed from Deborah's excellent story ''A Little Might Be Thought'', albeit she has no name there. Only Erestor's family belongs to me.  
  
Rating: R for this part.  
  
Please read Warnings before the Prologue.  
  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES:  
Time: 533, 3rd Age  
Summary:   
The feast is over and now the community of Imladris has to face the consequences of having devoured large amounts of feywine - with Elrohir getting drunk and Elladan getting horny and Erestor getting laid and poor Lindir... nay, you have to read it to find out!  
  
It seems that I have not described one thing clearly enough in Part One: the fact that Fíriel is *not* Elrond's mistress. She *was* his consort for a long time, but it ended after the Battle upon Dagorlad, *before* Elrond married Celebrían. I mentioned it in the reviews, but there might he those who don't write them, so I thought I'd clear it right here.  
  
This is Part Two from the 4th chapter - it turned out too long, so I broke it into two parts.  
Not beta-ed, so sorry for any mistakes.  
  
  
  
CHAPTER 4: THE EVE OF ENDERI - PART TWO  
  
[The first day of Enderi, in the year 532 of the Third Age]  
  
After the opening song there were many more, ancient hymns and old lays and even newer, merrier songs alike, and there was music without singing as well (Elrohir and Lindir, too, were asked to prove their skills once more), and more of the sweet feywine was consumed, while the evening grew old and the stars of Varda lit up on the dark velvet of the sky like tiny diamonds.  
  
The Lord and the Lady of the Valley took their leave rather early, strolling out of the Hall of Fire holding hands and with a dreamy smile on their faces. Haldir followed suit shortly thereafter, lacing his arms with Fíriel, whom he had known for hundreds of years, and the glittering of their eyes revealed that a passionate reunion was to come.  
  
Erestor felt drained. The preparations had kept him busy all day, and now he felt the aches of the fight with Haldir, too. Had his stupid pride not gotten the better of him, he would probably feel less miserable right now, he guessed, but being beaten before the eyes of his young charge without putting up a good fight was out of question. He had a respectable image to keep uphold, after all.  
  
''Any offers for the night?'', a familiar voice asked and Elladan, wearing the same richly-embroided robes as the rest of his family (including Erestor himself), sat down next to him, without asking for an invitation. Not that he needed one, though, old friends as they were, albeit not particularly close ones, despite the few short seasons when they had shared a bed.  
  
Erestor shook his head. He was truly much too tired for Elladan's teasing right now.  
''None.''  
He had not taken part in the merry dallying of his fellow Elves for several seasons by now - ever since the task of young Lindir's tutoring had been entrusted upon him.  
  
''Want one?'', Elladan asked casually. Erestor raised a sceptic eyebrow.  
  
''You are without a bedmate on Enderi's Eve? How unusual! No mortal Men visiting Imladris lately?''  
  
Elladan's preference of mortal lovers had been a matter of never-ending gossip in the valley, ever since he had reached maturity - and a serious cause of worry for his parents, who feared that the strong lure of mortal blood in his veins would make him choose untimely and without proper consideration.  
  
''None that I would lie with'', Elladan shrugged, placing a questioning hand upon Erestor's thigh, rather near to his hip. The seneschal sighed.  
  
''Elladan... this would do no good, for either of us. We tried it already, and it worked not.''  
  
''I ask not of you to pledge yourself to me'', Elladan replied, ''nor do I plan to announce my undying love for you. I just would hate to lie alone in a night like this. Regardless of its end, we *did* have a good time together, and I would very much like to taste the sweetness of the passion we once shared.''  
  
He raised his hand, cupped Erestor's face and kissed him on the mouth. Erestor sighed and gave in to the gentle pressure , opening his mouth under Elladan's, letting the younger Elf deepen the kiss. It felt so good to be wanted again. Though they never had truly been in love, he sometimes missed the passioante encounters with Elladan that left him sore for days afterwards.  
  
Elrond's eldest had a sort of almost mortal roughness in his demeanor, and he certainly was not the gentlest of lovers, but lying with him always made Erestor feel *alive*, more alive than he had ever felt since the destruction of his old home. Sometimes he asked himself whether to lie with mortal Men would feel the same.  
  
''Admit it'', Elaldan murmured, breaking the kiss for a moment and sliding his hand even higher upon Erestor's thigh, ''you need this. You need *me* tonight... need to be ravished. You have lain alone in your bed for far too long.''  
  
Which was true, of course. Unbound Elves usually dallied freely and seldom lay alone, less so during the great feasts of seasonal turnings which they celebrated not with music and dance only but with much love and passion as well. Most of them had more or less constant lovers, though these dalliances rarely lasted longer than a few decades - by very young Elves even less than that. The solitary life Erestor usually led was a cause of bewilderment among the residents of the dale, and even one of a little concern for the Lord of Imladris, who still kept a close eye on the well-being of his foster son.  
  
Erestor sighed again and let himself be pulled to his feet. He would go with Elladan tonight, and reason be damned. It will do him good to lay down all his worries and responsibilities, if for this one night only, and simply enjoy what life in this fair valley could offer.  
  
Wrapping arms around each other's waists, they left the Hall of Fire and retreated to Erestor's bedchamber, kissing passionately and exchanging gentle touches all the way long, and after shrugging off their confining ceremonial robes, the young seneschal surrendered control to his once-and-again lover, finding great relief and freedom In Elladan's harsh, demanding lovemaking.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Neither of them noticed the two pairs of eyes that watched them from a nearby balcony. The clear, grey eyes of Elrohir were gently amused - he, too, had had his share of tumbling in the hay with Erestor during an autumn seasonal feast a long time ago, but being more drawn to the fair maidens of their kin, he soon sought out other bedmates.  
  
Elladan had been more persistent, never letting a good challenge unanswered, but he could not keep their foster brother too long, either. Mayhap it had been better thus; Erestor was a deeply wounded soul, not the right target for their youthful brashness, though he seemed to enjoy Elladan's somewhat rough love play at times.  
  
Like right now.  
  
He glanced at the youngster who watched his tutor's playful wrestling with Elladan, then his complete surrender, with wide-eyed shock.  
  
''He... loves him?'', Lindir asked unbelievingly, bewilderment and maybe a little jealousy in his soft, hesitant voice.  
  
Now it was Elrohir's turn to be shocked. Had the boy just uttered his very first words, ever since he was brought here? Seeing Erestor give himself to Elladan must have shaken him badly, indeed. Elrohir felt pity for the child.  
  
/Detecting the weakness of those who we used to look up with respect is a hard thing, indeed/, he thought with mild amusement, /more so when the person in question is the solitary and so very respectable Erestor./  
  
But out loud he only said:  
''You mean Erestor? Nay, he is not in love with Elladan; nor is Elladan in love with him..''  
  
''B-but they... they are...''  
  
''Making love, aye'', Elrohir nodded, taking pity of the tormented boy, ''but that means little. This is our way, the way of all Elves: to dally merrily in our youth, both with male and female lovers; to learn and experience the many paths of love, til we find the one we bond with for eternity. After that we stay faithful to our chosen one, here on Earth and beyond the Sea, even in the Halls of Mandos.''  
  
Lindir only seemed half-listening to him watching the scene in Erestor's bedchamber with growing bewilderment.  
  
''Can... can I do this, too?'', he asked, blushing slightly. Elrohir smiled.  
  
''Not yet, little one. You have to reach maturity first, ere you are allowed to consort.''  
  
Lindir digested this for a moment, still not able to turn his eyes away from the two lovers in the other chamber, kissing passionately - among other things.  
  
''Is this... does it feel good?'' he inquired innocently. Elrohir grinned.  
  
''Oh, it does'', he said, then added; ''Want to try?''  
  
Lindir nodded eagerly, and Elrohir reached out, turning him away from the sight and towards himself, running the back of his fingers down the boy's alluringly soft cheek, along his slightly pointed jawline and the gentle curve of his neck, mesmerized by the softness of his skin.  
  
''One day, you shall break all hearts in this valley'', he whispered, ''for you are as beautiful as Ithil's kiss upon the surface of still waters...''  
  
He leaned in and kissed Lindir, carefully and gently, trying not to frighten him. Lindir stood petrified at first while Elrohir playfully nipped at his lower lip; the as-yet-unknown sensation of soft lips and hard teeth sent spikes of fire through his whole body, and a strange heat began to pool in his belly.  
  
Elrohir stepped back and smiled into the dreamy eyes of the youngling.  
''Liked that?''  
  
Lindir blushed again and nodded hesitantly. Elrohir raised an eyebrow.  
''More?'', he asked, and Lindir nodded again, more certain this time.  
  
Elrohir wrapped his arms around the narrow frame and rubbed his cheek against Lindir's, enjoying its softness, while the youngling hesitantly slipped his slender arms around his neck. Then he kissed Lindir again, with more passion, and this time the boy slowly began to react, soft lips parting under his, letting him enter that sweet mouth.  
  
The sweetness and softness of that kiss was Elrohir's undoing. All good intentions were washed away by the sharp, almost painful wave of desire that flooded his mind, already fogged by the considerable amount of feywine he had devoured during the feast. He deepened the kiss, his hands roaming Lindir's lithe body, sliding down the narrow back and squeezing more intimate flesh firmly, almost painfully, while the long, slim fingers of the boy threaded through his hair. He pressed Lindir against one of the pillars framing the entrance of the balcony, his body plastered along the length of the boy, their legs entwined as they stood and kissed with growing passion.  
  
''I believe 'tis past our young friend's bedtime'', a sober voice jerked them out of the dense fog of their lust-filled brains.  
  
Glorfindel stood in the other entrance, his appearance flawless as always, his fathomless eyes starring at Elrohir with stern disappointment. Elrond's son could not surpress a quiet groan. Being interrupted in this heated moment was bad enough, but being caught by Glorfindel, none less, while he was about to get a taste of the frobidden fruit, was even worse.  
  
''You are drunk'', the ancient Elf continued evenly. ''Go to your chambers and sleep out your haze. We shall speak of this when you are yourself again.''  
  
Elrohir gave a slight bow and leaved hurriedly, ashamed of his own actions. He would never have approached an under-aged boy in this manner, had the deceivingly sweet wine not clouded his judgement already. Mayhap he would be able to set things straight with Glorfindel alone, without letting his parents know - if he was very, very lucky. For he had no doubts what his father - and even more so his mother - would have to say about this.  
  
Lindir watched him leave with wide eyes, then he looked at Glorfindel, clearly frightened and confused.  
  
''Was that... wrong?'', he asked hesitantly.  
  
Glorfindel's brows shot up in amazement. Apparently, Elrohir *had* achieved something with his foolish actions. At least the boy was speaking now. With real words, not just through the protecting veil of music.  
  
''Aye, little one'', he answered gently, '''twas wrong. Elrohir should never have touched you that way.''  
  
''But Elladan... and Master Erestor...'', Lindir whispered, devastated that he would be denied something all the others were allowed to do. Something very enjoyable, as it seemed to him.  
  
''They are both grown adults'', Glorfindel smiled, patting the sad young face affectionatedly. ''Be not troubled, little one. Your time shall come - but right now, you still are too young for such pastimes. You still have much to learn.''  
  
''I *was* learning'', Lindir pointed out with child-like honesty, and Glorfindel shook his head in quiet laughter.  
  
''There are other, more pressing matters that demand your attention'', he said, amused; ''and the better you focus on *those*, the sooner you can get what you desire.''  
  
''But how should I focus when I burn up in the inside'', Lindir asked with innocent confusion. ''My whole body is in flame...''  
  
Glorfindel shook his head in regret. This was to be expected, to tell the truth. While Lindir's one-sided education by Aiwendil and his friends would made it considerably longer for him to reach legal maturity than any average young Elf would need, his body was more than ready to explore the ways of merriment and sweet, casual loving his generation indulged in so readily. What was that foolish old wizard thinking, keeping him in a child's state of mind, while his body was that of a man already?  
  
''Come with me'', he said, stretching out a hand to the boy, ''I knew the best cure for inner burning. Swimming in the river would cool you down in no time.''  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
In the next morrow Erestor woke up late, but it mattered little, since this was his day off. Elladan was still asleep beside him - truly asleep, with his eyes closed, as mortal Men did, but Erestor's sense of duty had already awakened, and he fought a hard fight between his well-loved body that lured him to stay in bed (and have another turn of last night's pleasant events) and his guilty consciousness that sternly reminded him that in the waves of their passion he had completely forgotten about Lindir and urged him to go and look for the boy.  
  
Finally the latter won the upper hand, and he leaned over to Elladan, placing a soft, lingering kiss upon the slightly parted lips of his once-and-again lover to wake him.  
  
''You have to go'', he murmured regretfully; ''we both have to go. I must look for Lindir.''  
  
Elladan arched into the kiss; then yawned.  
  
''I shall wait for you here. The boy was with Elrohir yestereve. I think they were both more than a little drunk. At least Elrohir was.''  
  
''What?!'', Erestor jumped off the bed near to panic, knowing all to well what strong wine could do to Elrohir at times. That was how Elrond's second son ended up in *his* bed once, shortly after reaching legal age.  
  
He frantically put on some of the clothes that lay around in disheveled heaps on the floor from the last evening, not even caring whether they were his own or Elladan's, and rushed down bare-footed the floor to Lindir's chambers that were fairly near to his own. With all the strength he could maintain, he restrained himself from bursting through the front door, approaching the youngling's bedchamber from the balcony instead, where it stood open to the gardens, moving as quietly as a ghost.  
  
He peered into the still shadowy room and was relieved to see Lindir lying on his side in the large bed, tucked in safely and alone, long, pale hair spread over the pillow like a silvery halo of moonlight. He seemed to sleep peacefully, even with his eyes closed - something Erestor had noticed by him earlier. Mayhap it as a custom he took over from Aiwendil - or he was afraid of the waking dreams. It happened to very young Elves sometimes.  
  
Still, he seemed to be unharmed, and Erestor decided that a short, thankful prayer to the Lady of the Stars was in order. Elbereth seemed to smile down at the boy beningly - otherwise things could have turned out badly for him - and for Erestor, too.  
  
He moved to turn away when a strong, slender hand touched his arm and stopped him. He needed not to look back in order to recognize Glorfindel, for as all by Vanyar, the ancient Elf's pale skin had a slight golden hue; and he still wore the ring of his House, that of the Golden Flower, upon his finger. He tilted his head on one side, nodding towards the garden, and Erestor retreated from Lindir's balcony to speak with him, without waking the boy.  
  
The ancient Elf gave him a stern glare, though he was not without compassion, either. Still, this was a matter they had to speak about earnestly.  
  
''A little late have you remembered your duties as the boy's guardian'', he said in a low voice. Erestor hung his head in shame.  
  
''I am aware of that, Master Glorfindel - and I deeply regret my failing. I let myself be... distracted, and there is no excuse for that.''  
  
''True'', Glorfindel agreed, ''though I can understand the nature of your... distraction. You have been lonely for a long time; too long for an Elf of your age - and 'tis hard to withstand Elladan once he has put his mind to seducing someone.''  
  
''*You* would not let yourself distract in this manner'', Erestor murmured.  
  
''Mayhap not'', Glorfindel laughed, ''But compare yourself not to me! I am one of the oldest beings on Earth, while you have hardly begun to live. Also, I am less fallable to youthful charms, for I have given my heart for eternity a very long time ago, and though I could not have whom my heart desired, I never yearned for the touch of an other lover.''  
  
Erestor reamined in guilty silence for some time. He knew he failed Elrond, who proved enormous trust towards him while giving him the responsibility over Lindir's life, and it pained him to have failed, for the Lord of Imladris was still his childhood hero, whom he loved and admired like a father.  
  
''My Lord shall be greatly disappointed to hear this'', he murmured in defeat.  
  
''He needs not to learn of it'' Glorfindel offered, watching him with detached curiosity, whether he would fail this particular test or not. ''There was no harm done; I have come in time to break them apart.''  
  
But Erestor only shook his head, affirming the older Elf's trust in his straightforwardness.  
  
''Nay, I shall not lie to my benefactor. The failure was mine; and so shall be the punishment.''  
  
''He might take the boy from your care and give him to an other tutor'', Glorfindel remainded him.  
  
''I know'', Erestor sighed, ''and it would sadden me, for tutoring this child brought a light into my life I was not hoping for. But would that be my Lord's decision, I shall respect it. Mayhap it will be better for the boy to come to a guardian who is less... distracted by his own sorrows.''  
  
Glorfindel smiled. Truth to be told, he liked the younger Elf very much and was moved by his honesty and responsible demeanor. Sure, Erestor *had* made a mistake by letting young Lindir unwatched during a merry night like the Eve of Enderi, but it also brought some unexpected results.  
  
''Have faith'', he said, ''for no ill came from your slight lapse of watchfulness. More than that: something unhoped-for happened: Lindir began to speak again.''  
  
He waited, but the joyous reaction he expected never came.  
  
''What bothers you?'', he asked with a frown. ''Was it not what we have been waiting for all these seasons?''  
  
''It was'', replied Erestor sadly, ''but I was hoping to be the one who makes him speak again.''  
  
''Well, you were'', Glorfindel commented drily. ''He uttered the first words when he saw you wrestling with Elladan on the bed.''  
  
''O Elbereth!'', Erestor paled visible, ''he saw us?''  
  
''He did; yet it was not a bad thing, I deem'', answered Glorfindel thoughtfully. ''First, the shock of it brought forth his speech again. Second, it made him realize that he is no child any more.''  
  
''But he *is*...''  
  
''Legally, yes, but his body is that of a man grown. Consider that he is roughly of the same age as the Lady Arwn - would you treat *her* as a child?''  
  
Erestor shook his head glumly.  
  
''Nay... but Lindir is so much like a child that I always forget about his true age.''  
  
'''Tis easy to forget'', Glorfindel agreed, ''but we *have* to consider the ramifications of it.''  
  
''I know'', Erestor sighed; ''I shall have to watch him more closely from now on - *if* the Lord Elrond leaves him in my care at all.''  
  
''I believe he will'', said Glorfindel, ''but watching Lindir like a jailor is *not* the right path to walk. It would make him feel cornered, trapped. You should show more trust in his judgement.''  
  
''How could I? After what almost happened...''  
  
''It took him by surprise. He shall be better shielded the next time.''  
  
''Elbereth!'', groaned Erestor. ''How I have hoped to find some solace, even some merriment during the days of Enderi! Now all I am about to have is a long conversation about the bees and the birds... truly, 'tis the last thing I need right now.''  
  
''Then leave it'', Glorfindel smiled. ''Go to Elladan and enjoy the days of Enderi with him - you sorely need it. *I shall* have a talk with young Lindir - *and* with Elrohir, too. He is not a bad one... even reasonably responsible for his age, unless he is drunk. But he *will* develop a tolerance against wine in another century or so.''  
  
Erestor hesitated. He truly wanted to return into Elladan's arms and forget about his worries for a while. On the other hand, though...  
  
''I have to tell the Lord Elrond what happened'', he murmured miserably.  
  
''Let that be my concern'', Glorfindel patted his back in a fatherly manner. ''I shall do all the talking. You go and have some merriment. You still are too young to brood all over Enderi. Enjoy your youth as long as it lasts.''  
  
Erestor half-heartedly resisted a little more, but secretly he was relieved over the chance to simply be himself one more time. It happened far too rarely in the recent years. He was of an age when most Elves only began to take over responsible positions; he had filled his for more than five hundred years, and sometimes it lasted heavily on his shoulders.  
  
Giving in to Glorfindel's gentle reassurances, he returned to his bedchamber and unceremoniously fell onto the bed beside Elladan with a thud.  
  
''Are things going well?'' Elladan asked, nibbling on his shoulder absently. ''You came back very quickly... not that I would complain.''  
  
Erestor nodded.  
''Glorfindel...'', he murmured as an explanation and rolled over to face his once-and-again lover. ''I have the day off. Hope you made no other plans.''  
  
''Only such that involve ravishing you some more'', replied Elladan laughing, and any coherent conversation ceased at that point.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * *  
  
End notes:  
This chapter now endeth here, too. We shall see young Lindir and the others again in the next century.  
I know, all what has been described here would *not* fit in with what the Great Maker might have envisioned about the private life of Elves. But since it does not contradict any *important* canon facts, I chose to give them some fun. 


	7. Chapter 5: Roots

INNOCENCE

**by Soledad Cartwright**

Disclaimer:

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Fíriel still belongs to Deborah. Only the Lady Aquiel belongs to me – and the highly confusing family tree I've created for Gildor and Lindir.

Rating: PG for this chapter.

Please read Warnings before the Prologue.

**Author's Notes:**

Time: year 607, 3rd Age

Summary: Now we come to the shocking revelation of Lindir'a ancestry – be prepared!

But first, I want to make one thing clear: though this is a linear story, there will be sometimes decades or (later) even centuries between two chapters. I can't tell you everything that happened during the roughly two and a half thousand years that Lindir spent in Elrond's house.

I presume that he had a fairly quiet life, sheltered and loved by anyone, especially Elrond's family, but I only intend to tell about important events. It won't always be a happy time for our innocent Elf, though he has to go through some charapter development; and we'll have to see just _how_ much of his innocence will remain at the end.

If you want to have a glimpse of what has become of Lindir by the time of the Ring War, check out my earlier story, ''Of Riddles of Doom and Paths of Love''. That is the one where Lindir appears for the very first time, and that is how I got interested in him at all. Originally, the opening scene of ''Innocence'' would have to be that of the (as-yet unwritten) fifth chapter of ''Riddles''. But Deborah, the Valar bless her, pointed out that too much Erestor wouod take the emphasis from Boromir, who _is_ the main hero of that particular storyline, so I decided to write an independent Lindir story. Not that I'd thought it would take me 30-odd chapters! g

The Lady Aquiel is an OC who appears first in ''A Heart for Falsehood Framed'' and plays some role in ''A Tale of Never-Ending Love'' (my Glorfindel-story), too. Her background and relation to Gildor Inglorion is completely made up by me – as is Lindir's.

CHAPTER 5: ROOTS

[The 6th day of _hrívië__(1)_, in the year 607 of the 3rd Age.]

The years flew by Imladris like mere days in the reality of mortal Men, and the long, cold season of _hrívië_ reached the valley once again, the usual activities lessening and giving room to more contemplative silence. The big, densely-woven tapestries were hung up before the large windows that led to the balconies to keep the cool wind out, and the gatherings in the Hall of Fire became more frequent and more numerous.

Unlike many Elves, Erestor liked this season. During the last eighty years, he returned to his solitary life, save the great seasonal feasts, and divided his time between the demands of his office and the task of tutoring Lindir. Having overcome his first shock, the youngling proved to be very pleasant company: cheerful, curious, yet keeping his shyness and his quiet demeanor.

He learnt very quickly when ancient lore was considered, but his skills with people were still rather poor. Customs meant little to him, and he had the unfortunate tendency to burst out what he was thinking, regardless of whom he might have involuntarily insulted. For though he was polite and friendly, he simply could not understand that sometimes there were things better left unspoken.

''If he continues like this, he shall be over a thousand years old ere he reaches maturity'', Erestor complained to Celebrían, who took over watching Lindir's education from her husband, stating that it was 'a mother's duty'. ''We cannot release him from a child's status unless he learns to behave like a grown Elf.''

''I fear that would never happen'', answered Celebrían solemnly, her foresight telling her things no-one else could see. ''In some ways Lindir always will remain a child: and old and wise child mayhap, or so I hope, yet still a child.''

''Then what is your advice, Lady?'', Erestor asked. ''Must we keep him a child his whole life? _Can_ we do that?''

''Nay, we cannot – that would be unjust and wrong'', Celebrían thought about it for a moment. ''But I do believe you have poured enough ancient wisdom into his head that it would last three lifetimes. Give him more… practical things to do. Things by which he is forced to meet other people and to get along with them.''

''As in…?'', Erestor still could not get a grasp on the concept. Celebrían shrugged.

''If I remember rightly, he was thought to become an esquire of the Lord of the Valley. So make him one. Let him run on errands through the valley and work with his hands instead of his mind. That should do him good.''

* * * * * * * * * *

Erestor took the advice of the Lady to heart, and once again Celebrían proved to be right. Lindir _had_ opened up a little through his daily dealing with the household, and even wormed himself into Fíriel's good graces enough to make her teach him some herbal lore. He already knew a lot about herbs, thank to his rather unusual childhood, and this new area of studies seemed to bring him great joy.

He was also instructed to do everything hat an esquire had to do: run errands, carry messages, help the grooms take care of the wondrous horses – the lattest he enjoyed greatly, more so after his own faithful beast had died of old age.

At first Erestor was in anguish about how the youngling would take this new loss, but Lindir took it surprisingly well. Sure, he was very sad for several days, but recovered quickly and never spoke of his beloved horse again. Not to other people anyway, and the Elven horses in the stables were unable – and most likely unwilling, too – to tell any one what he was telling them in those days of grief.

Radagast had come by a few times during the last years, and his irregular visits seemed to highten the spirits of the young Elf, but though he never could stay long, Lindir did not grieve after his departure any more. He had accepted Imladris as his new home, it seemed (mayhap it was more of a home for him than anything he had had before), and was rather content with the good life in the valley.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Erestor jerked off his thoughts when the subject of his musings entered Elrond's study where he was working on the preparations of the Lady Arwen's Choosing Ceremony – that was due on the first day of _coirë__(2)_ – and said without a preamble:

''A message has come in, Master Erestor.''

''Where from?'', Erestor asked; ''And who has brought it?''

''The Eagles were passing by''; due to his unique experience with birds and beasts, Lindir was entrusted with handling the winged messengers, which he did gladly and eagerly. ''One Gildor Inglorion has announced his visit.''

He waited for a moment for Erestor's answer, but when none came, he asked:

''Who is he?''

''An old acquintance of the Lord Elrond, related from afar to our Lady'', Erestor said with a shrug. ''We have not seen him here for… I cannot even tell you how long it was that he last set foot in Imladris.''

''Where does he live?'' Lindir inquired. Erestor shrugged again.

''No-where… Well, sometimes in Mithlond, though he does not belong to Círdan's people; but also in the Far South, where our kin still has a haven, beyond the realm of Men. Still, most of the time he and his people travel across Middle-earth, collect tidings, hunt Orcs and other evil beasts… The Wandering Companies have no permanent dwellings, for their longing for the Sea is too strong to let him get rooted deeply in this Earth.''

''What is he like?'', persisted Lindir. ''Like our Lord? Or does he more resemble the Lady?''

''Neither'', smiled Erestor. ''He is gold-haired, for he descends from the House of Finrod Felagund and thus has some Vanyar blood in his veins.''

''Like Master Glorfindel?'', Lindir asked innocently. But Erestor shook his head, smiling.

''Nay, little one. No-one on Earth is like Glorfindel. One day you shall understand that.''

''I wish you should stop treating me like a child'', said Lindir, suddenly annoyed. ''I am over three hundred – I think –, and you still call me 'little one'.''

Erestor sighed. Sometimes it was challenging to handle a child in a grown Elf's body, but today he did not feel up to this particular challenge.

''I am truly sorry, Lindir. I shall try not to do it any more.''

Lindir, being exceptionally sensitive for mood swings, felt his tiredness and gave him a rueful smile.

''Nay, 'tis I who should be sorry. You are upset, and I am tiring you even more. Again.''

''I am not…''; Erestor broke up, realizing that Lindir, in his unerring insight, spoke the truth. He _was_ upset. ''You are right, lit… Lindir. I am – well, not quite upset, but…''

''You like not those who have announced their coming'', Lindir stated.

''Nay, I do not'', Erestor admitted with a sigh, ''but let my dislike not lead you the same way. You should form your own opinion about Gildor.''

''Tell me more!'', Lindir demanded, sitting on the corner of Elrond's desk and crossing his arms expectantly. Erestor shook his head in exasperation.

''Should you not be out somewhere, do things for the Lord Elrond?''

''He sent me away'', Lindir shrugged. ''The Lady Celebrían wanted to discuss family matters with him. I am not family.''

''You are no less family here than I am'', said Erestor, moved by the hurt in those dreamy eyes.

'''Tis not true'', Lindir replied. ''You are his foster son. He pulled you out from under the ruins of your home town. I – I am but a foundling that Master Aiwendil dropped before his front door. I have no family, no place outside this valley – not even my name is my own.''

''Do you regret that Aiwendil has brought you here?'', Erestor asked. Lindir shook his head.

''Nay. I am happy here. I can learn things and make music like I have never made before – and I have _you_ to care for me. But'', he added, and now there was definite sadness in his soft, lilting voice, ''I do wish to know who I really am.''

''Does it matter?'', shrugged Erestor. ''Birth alone makes us not the person who we truly are. Look at Fíriel. She is of common birth, yet she is the most respected person in the whole valley, after the Lord and the Lady – and Glorfindel, of course. While there are others, of high birth, who still lack the nobility of their ancestors.''

''You speak of this Gildor'', Lindir stated, satisfied that he was coming nearer the truth. ''Why do you despise him so much? Did he hurt you or insult you?''

''He did not… well, not directly'', Erestor sighed, really not wanting to discuss the matter, but then gave in to his uneasy feelings.. ''I am not important enough for that.''

Lindir knitted his smooth brow – it was a lovely sight.

''Why? Who _is_ he to handle other people like that?''

''He is an Elf-lord, from a House of Princes'', said Erestor; ''of royal blood, in fact. His father, Inglor, was the son of King Finrod Felagund of Nargothrond. You have learnt that Finrod had a beloved in Valinor, a Vanyarin woman named Amarië(3) who did not follow him back to Middle-earth…''

''I have. But tis said that they were not married...''

''True. Not publicly, at least, but our laws and customs allow us to marry fast and secretly in times of great need. Inglor, Gildor's father was born after Finrod and his brothers left for Middle-earth. He came hither with the Host of Valar during the War of Wrath; he and his newly-wedded wife, Aratari of the Vanyar. After the war, they decided to remain in Middle-earth for a while and moved to Lindon, where they dwelt in Forlindon, in the court of the High King. Gildor himself was born in Forlindon, as was his sister, and he became a Prince in the court of Gil-galad and lived there until the Last Alliance of Elves and Men.''

''Did you know him – back there?'', Lindir asked. Erestor shook his head, laughing.

''Nay, I was much too young for that; nor have I lived in such high places. I met him first after our Lord had brought me here, for Imladris had been more a fortress than a home in those dark years.''; his lips twisted to a bitter smile. ''He asked our Lord why he would bring such a useless little brat like me here. He said Elrond should have tried to save one of the more important people instead.''

''He said that?'', Lindir's gentle eyes gleamed. ''How _dared_ he to say such thing?!''

''Easy'', Erestor patted his arm soothingly. ''I am certain that he was not the only one of the nobles who thought that – just the most honest one. I have grown used to it. 'Tis of no consequence.''

''What did our Lord say to that?'', Lindir asked. Erestor shrugged.

''I know not. I only know that Gildor Inglorion set no foot in Imladris after that, til the hosting for the Battle upon Dagorlad – where he saved my life.''

''He did that?'' – Lindir's eyes grew impossibly wide.

''He did'', Erestor laughed quietly. ''You need to understand, lit… Lindir: No-one is simply evil, save the servants of the Enemy, and not even those were born that way. Gildor Inglorion believed that someone of common birth had no place in the noblest of all Elven Houses – not as a fosterling, anyway… and I think not that he would have a very high opinion of me – for what am I? The son of a jewel-smith who had not even had the chance to learn his father's art. But that means not that he would let a fellow warror die on the battlefield when he could save him. He is a valiant Elf and a great warrior – he fought like a dragon in that battle.''

''But you like him not?'', Lindir asked. Erestor made a wry face.

''No more than he likes me. But our Lord chose to keep me and raise me like a son, and I care not what other Elf-Lords might think. It matters little – still, I owe Gildor Inglorion my life, so I would ask you to be polite with him.''

''I promise'', without a warning, Lindir slid from the desk and threw his arms around the surprised Erestor; ''how can I not? Without him, I would not have you now!''

Erestor laughed, though a little embarrassed, by this recless display of affection, and patted the narrow back of the young Elf fondly.

''Glad we are in agreement, li…Lindir. Now, go and let me finish my work. Then we can sit someplace quiet and you can play me something on that flute of yours.''

''As you wish'', Lindir let go of him, blushed slightly and went to the door, stopping for a moment ere he left. ''Master Erestor?''

''Hmmm?'' Erestor was already deep in the parchments with his head.

''You… you can call me 'little one', if you want. I… rather like it'', and with that, Lindir quickly left.

* * * * * * * * * * *

It was two days later that Gildor Inglorion and his people reached Imladris; about three dozens of them altogether. They were clad in silvery grey and moos-green and had no horses with them, save a few beasts of burden, for the Wandering Companies usually crossed the lands afoot, moving slowly with the changing of seasons from one of their customary resting places to another. It was their way of life to be on the road and bring even their children with them all the time, as soon as they could walk steadily enough.

They were no children in Gildor's company, though, for children had become rare among Elves in these days already; but roughly a third of them were women, though it was not easy to guess in their travelling clothes, men and women alike wearing loose, hooded cloaks, knee-long tunics, leggings and soft, knee-high boots. Their hair was not braided, just pulled back by several golden or silvery ties and laced into a tight club that fell well below their waists, and their wore no jewelry, either. Tall and fair they were, moving with the easy grace of those who are accustomed to constant movement, dark-haired and grey-eyed like most Noldor, save two of them.

One of these, their leader, wore a gold-embroided tunic under his cloak, with the crest of the House of Finrod on his breast, and his hair had the colour of molten gold – the same colour as Glorfindel's, a clear sign that he, too, had the blood of Vanyar in his veins. His angular face was very fair, in spite of his slightly haughty expression, with high cheekbones and wide, sea-coloured eyes, though a long scar marred his left cheek from temple to jaw – most likely the remainder of an old sword-wound, for it had paled almost to invisibility during the long years… yet it was still there, as a living proof of the Elf-Lords bravery. A great sword in a beautifully-crafted scabbard hung upon his back, and he also wore two long knives on his richly-adorned belt.

Erestor, as it was his duty, hurried down to the paved courtyard to great the guests of his Lord. Glorfindel, too, appeared from no-where, as it was his unnerving custom; no-one from Elrond's household could guess how he was able to take notice first from everything that happened.

''Hail and welcome to Imladris, Gildor Inglorion'', said Erestor with a slight bow, and added the traditional words in Quenya: ''_Elen síla lúmenn omentielvo!_''

''That it has, indeed'', Gildor agreed, biding him the traditional warrior's clasp of forearms. ''How are you faring, Erestor?''

''Fine, my Lord, thank the Master of the Valley and the more peaceful times'', Erestor replied politely, somewhat surprised by the question. ''May I ask if you intend to spend _hrívië_ with us or is this only a short visit? For I have to prepare your accomodations accordingly.''

''By the leave of the Lord and the Lady, we would like to stay during the winter season'', Gildor answered. ''For we come from the Grey Havens, and had no longer rest on our way here, save one, in Lothlórien, from where we also have brought messages for the Lady Celebrían.''

''As you wish, my Lord'', Erestor gave another polite bow. ''I shall see then that your people become proper accomodations in the guest houses on the other side of the river – save yourself, of course, for I doubt not that the Lord Elrond would wish to have you in the Great House.''

''Myself, and my family, doubtlessly'', Gildor answered, offering his hand to one of his people, a young woman, and introducing her to Erestor and Glorfindel: ''Meet the Lady Aquiel, daughter of my beloved sister, Agloreth.''

The Elves of Imladris bowed again and looked in awe at the Lady Aquiel, for she was so like in form of womanhood to Gildor that she could very well have been his own daughter instead of his niece: the same golden hair, the same noble features, only her eyes were grey like a clear winter morning, and there was no trace of haughtiness upon her beautiful face.

Also, though she seemed to be a fairly young person, thought and knowledge were in her glance, not unlike in that of the Lady Arwen, though she seemed to have a more cheerful nature, not carrying the gloom of mortal ancestors in her heart.

''You honour us with your presence in our midst, Lady Aquiel'', Erestor said gallantly, and the gold-haired beauty laughed, and it sounded like the music of falling water upon stones in springtime. ''Please, follow Master Glorfindel to the main house while I shall take care of your people and your beasts.''

Gildor nodded in agreement and joined Glorfindel with his niece, while Erestor shepherded his people across the narrow stone bridge to the guest houses and Lindir led their pack horses away to the stables. The Elf-Lord, however, shot a thoughtful glance after the youngling and turned to Glorfindel.

''Tell me, Master Glorfindel, who is that young Elf who just took care of our beasts? I cannot remember having met him during my last visit in this fine valley.''

''Tis most likely because he was not yet here at that time'', Glorfindel replied with a slight smile. ''His name is Lindir, and his tale is an intriguing one – but I shall leave it to the Lord Elrond to tell if – if it pleases him.''

Gildor swallowed the mild rebuke as well as his pride – no-one ever got into an argument with Glorfindel, at least no-one with all his senses together, for it was hopeless and a waste of time –, and the ancient Elf led them first to the antechamber of the Great House, where they were greated by the Lady Celebrían, as it was custom in Elrond's house, then they all went together to the upper library where Elrond liked to meet his guests.

When all the traditional greetings and introductions had been properly performed, including Elrond's own children, who, too, had been summoned to greet their noble visitors whom they had never met before, everyone got seated around a long, low table. Erestor returned shortly thereafter and joined them, deliberately overlooking Gildor's slight discomfort.

Lindir, as it was his duty, brought wine and some seed cakes and offered them to the guests, wincing uncomfortably under the piercing look of the gold-haired Elf-Lord. He knew not how he had raised the displease of the high-ranking guest, but he very much wanted to be dismissed. Alas, being the Lord's esquire, this was not an opinion.

''So, do tell us about your travels, Gildor Inglorion'', said Elrond, when all had had some refreshments and were ready to talk. ''Nearly four hundred years have passed by in the outside world since your last visit in this valley, and no tidings have come from you, either. Where have you been in all those years?''

''In the South Haven, mostly'', Gildor answered. ''I had been grounded for quite some time. As you know, the husband of my sister had been slain upon the plains of Dagorlad; and Agloreth faded away from grief shortly thereafter. So I took my niece, who was but a little elfling back then, and brought her to the South, where life was more safe and the Sea near, should we have been forced to flee to the Blessed Realm.

''We never travelled any further than Lothlórien during those years, where Aquiel has became a pupil of the Lady Galadriel for many long seasons. But after a while the hearts of my people became restless, for we are not accustomed to stay on the same place for such a long time, and voices were raised that we set out on a pilgrimage to the White Tower of Elostirion once again.

''And so we travelled to Círdan's realm, for Aquiel wanted to look into the Seeing Stone before her Choosing Ceremony, as it is customary among our people, and we had spent a few seasons in Mithlond, enjoying the songs of the Sea, ere we returned to Lothlórien, where she was to complete the first cycle of her studies.''

''That was a long way around, indeed'', Elrond nodded; ''but what brings you to Imladris? You could have visited us more easily on your way to the Gey Havens, or back to Lothlórien. Why coming now?''

''Few of my peole have ever seen the beauty of this valley, ''said Gildor, ''but those who have, were longing to return here. Yet this was not our main reason, though we are thankful for your hospitality during the long, cold winter season(4).''

''What is it then?'', asked Elrond, truly surprised now. Gildor never belonged to his close friends, not even during their shared years in Gil-galad's court, and certainly not after he had thrown him out of his house for that rude remark concerning his foster son.

''I wish to ask you a favor, Elrond'', the gold-haired Elf-Lord sighed; it certainly hurt his pride, but he had no other choice. ''Aquiel here wishes to become a master of ancient lore, and she came to the insight that Master Glorfindel would be the right tutor for her. Would you accept her in your house for the time of her studies? Yet let me warn you: this might prove a very long time.''

''Any one who wishes to gain knowledge shall always be welcome in my house'', answered Elrond gravely; even if he had disliked the idea, he would have no other choice but accept, for so his Master's vows demanded from him. But actually he was happy to finally have some other company for Arwen than her brothers. Aquiel seemed a fine and good-natured young lady to him, the best friend he could wish for his sometimes lonely daughter.

''As for her studies, you should ask Master Glorfindel himself'', he added, ''for I cannot promise aught in his name.''

''Oh, I accept, of course'', Glorfindel said. ''I might not have formally sworn a Mater's vows, but I never refused any one who had the wish to learn. And'', he added with a sly grin, ''I have become rather accustomed to teaching young people since I moved in with my Lord in his house. It seems to me that I have done naught else in this whole Age – and for the better part of the last one!''

They all laughed, for indeed, Glorfindel had been tutor and friend and confidant for all the young Elves in the household, including Erestor himself, who alone of them had seen him in all his glory as a warrior.

''We offer you a place in our home for as long as you desire, Aquiel'', said the Lady Celebrían with a warm smile; ''I for my part very much want to talk with you about Lórien and how my parents are faring; for I have not visited my old home for a very long time(5).''

''It would be my pleasure, Lady Celebrían, and I thank you for your hospitality'', Aquiel bowed her golden head politely. ''Gladly shall I tell you _all_ the tidings of both Mithlond and Lórien that you wish to hear.''

''And even more grateful am I to know my niece in safety and her studies in good hands'', Gildor sighed in relief. ''For it seems that she did not inherit the urge to travel from our side of her ancestry; instead she is more of a scholar than any one of us has ever been. I do believe that she will be happy and content here.''

''Uncle, I would be happy if you did not speak of me as if I were not present'', the Lady Aquiel frowned; then, turning to Celebrían, she added with a wicked smile: '''tis a bad habit I have been unable to cure him of all those years, as you can see.''

They laughed again, even Gildor himself; then the visiting Elf-Lord turned his piercing gaze towards Lindir again, who involuntarily stepped closer to Erestor, as if seeking out his protection.

''Now that we are discussing our young ones anyway, I would very much like to hear a tale from you, Elrond'', he said. ''Master Glorfindel would not tell me how this young esquire of yours has come to this house; would _you_ be willing to satisfy my curiosity?''

''Should I?'', asked Elrond pointedly. ''Do you have a reason to be curious about him?''

''I might'', Gildor answered slowly, ''though I am still somewhat uncertain. If I were to hear more about him, I might be able to tell you more as well.''

Elrond though about this for a moment. Lindir's fate was not something to be discussed with casual visitors, but should Gildor know anything, and it seemed that he did, in fact, then Elrond, too, wanted to learn of it.

''Very well'', he finally said. ''Lindir has been found and raised for a while by Master Aiwendil, one of the Istari; he then was brought to my house and given into my care. And that is all I can tell you, for I know no more about him, myself.''

''_Where_ has he been found?'', Gildor inquired sharply, leaning forward in his seat, his eyes piercing the frightened young Elf like sharp daggers.

''On the east side of Ered Luin's southern range'', Elrond answered, surprised. ''He was but a baby, left behind on the forest floor, wrapped in a blanket only, or so the old wizard told us.''

''And _when_, exactly, did it happen?'', asked Gildor. Elrond shrugged.

''Aiwendil could not remember; he is somewhat of a dreamer as you know. It has to be either around the year of 200 in this Age or a century earlier. Which ever is true, Lindir is of roughly the same age as my own children'', he gave Gildor a piercing look of his own. ''Why do you ask? Do you know aught about his family? Who his parents might be?''

''I cannot be sure'', Gildor replied, ''but there is a way to gain hard proof, by your leave. _If_ he is whom I suspect he might be, then there should be a birth mark on his body that can clear out any doubts.''

''What kind of birth mark?'', Elrond asked. ''Can you show us?''

''I can'', nodded Gildor. ''Come here, Lindir!''

The young Elf ignored the commanding tone, seeking out Erestor's glance. The seneschal patted his arm reassuringly.

''Do as he asks, little one. He will not harm you.'' /_If he values his life_/, the death glare he gave the high-ranking guest added.

Hesitantly, Lindir approached the Elf-Lord, who seemed terrible and kingly in his eyes, like a golden dragon indeed, and stopped at arm's length from him. Gildor rose from his seat, lifted the unbraided, pale blond hair of the young Elf, pushing it on one side, and revealed a small, heart-shaped, dark red birth mark on the nape of his neck.

''This is the proof that we were looking for'', he said solemnly; ''the Mark of the House of Finarfin. No-one but the descendants of Finarfin wear it, and even of those not all. The youngling belongs to my close kindred.''

And with that, he bowed his head, and pulling his own thick club of golden hair aside, he revealed the same mark under it. The Lady Aquiel, after a moment of hesitation, did the same. The three of them were clearly related, the rare mark proved it for any one.

''But how can it be?'', Celebrían asked in awe. ''We always have been told that you and I are the only remaining members of Finarfin's House in Middle-earth. All the others are either departed or in Mandos' Halls, save my mother and your niece.''

'''Tis no common knowledge'', Gildor answered; ''for it was considered somewhat of a shame that Finduilas, daughter of King Orodreth would turn away in her heart from her betrothed, Gwindor son of Guilin, for a mere mortal who has brought destruction upon Nargothrond(6). But 'tis known among the line of Finarfin that ere Gwindor was captured, he and Finduilas had consummated their love, and a gold-haired daughter was born during his absence; one that Finduilas named Failivrin(7).

''Failivrin survived the fall of Nargothrond and was brought to Círdan't people, to the Isle of Balar, where she was raised and married one of the Falathrim, a minstrel called Dinithel, and gave birth to a son, Duilin, who grew up to become one of the best singers of the Havens and was chosen to protect the White Tower of Elostiron and to lead the ceremonies held there on important feasts.

''Coming of age, Duilin married a maiden, Tinwiel, one of the Falathrim again, who gave her a son in the year 239. Three moons after the birth, Duilin and his wife decided to return to their sacred duties in Elostirion, taking their little son with them. No-one of them has ever been seen again – until now.''

Celebrían thought about this tale for quite some time, weighing the arguments for and against it in her mind and her heart carefully.

''So, if I understand this rightly, Lindir is of our kindred, related to both of us, though closer to you than to me?'', she asked.

''His name is _not_ Lindir'', Gildor answered with some indignation. ''In truth, he is no else than Ingwil, son of Duilin the Singer and Tinwiel of the Falathrim, born from the blood of Kings, a fifth grade grandson of King Orodreth himself; the same generation as Aquiel. They are fourth grade cousins.''

''Well, 'tis certainly a surprise, something we have never counted on, though we kept hoping to find his family someday'', Elrond said. ''It seems that my decision, not to accept him as a fosterling, was right. Now that his true ancestry is revealed, I presume you want to take over responsibility for him; you _are_ his closest kindred, after all. Though we would regret to lose him very much; for every one in my house has grown fond of him.''

Fully unexpected, Lindir shook off Gildor's somewhat possessive hand from his shoulder and took a few steps backwards.

''I shall _not_ go with him'', he said, his eyes wide with fear. ''You cannot give me someone I have never seen before.'' He looked at Erestor in panic now. ''Tell him he cannot do it!''

''He can, little one'', Erestor sighed, feeling his own heart break; ''in fact, he _must_, if the Lord Gildor insists. 'Tis the right of the closest family to care for an orphant.''

''I care not!'', Lindir hissed. ''I am no horse or dog that you can reach over when you have found a new master. You cannot handle me like that!''

In his righteous anger, as they all realized for the first time, he looked very much like Gildor himself: the same finely-chiseled features, the same high cheekbones, the same stubborn pride, even the same colour of their eyes. No-one really needed any more proof that they, indeed, were of the same family.

''You are still under-aged, Ingwil son of Duilin'', Elrond remainded him sternly; for no matter how much pity he felt for the young Elf, the laws and customs of their people had bound his hands. ''You shall do what the ones responsible for you see fit to decide.''

Lindir turned to him, and at once his otherwise gentle eyes grew very cold; as did his soft voice.

''I have naught to do with that person you are speaking of, my Lord. I am Lindir of Rhosgobel; this is the name I was given by Master Aiwendil, Radagast the Brown, who saved me and raised me and brought me here where I have found a home, and this is the only name I shall ever answer to. 'Tis your right, of course, to deny me to stay under your roof. But know this: ere would I leap from the highest waterfall of this valley than go away with a stranger, just because we might share the same ancestors.''

Every one in the library was shocked to hear the heated words of the young Elf – well, every one save Celebrían, who had not a moment's doubt that Lindir would resist til his last breath to being separated from Imladris – and from Erestor. She had watched their growing closeness during all the passing years and guessed what Erestor seemed blissfully unaware of, himself: that he was much more for Lindir than just a tutor. Yet she kept her insights in her heart, knowing that speaking of them would cause great damage at this point of Lindir's life, and decided to wait and watch some more, ere to discuss it with her husband.

''I believe that – regardless of the laws and customs of our people – there is much truth in Lindir's words'', she said calmly, earning a thankful look from the young Elf. ''We must not ignore his wishes in this matter. It would be cruel and wrong even if he were buit a small child.

Yet he is no child any more. According to Gildor, he is even older than our own daughter, who shall celebrate her Time of Choosing at the end of this season, and had he received the education our young ones usually receive, he would be considered a full adult by now.

His legal maturity might take long years yet to reach, but, as we could just see right here, he is very much capable of deciding for himself. So I beg you, my husband, and you, Gildor, to consider very carefully ere you come to a decision.''

''I have naught to consider in this matter'', Gildor answered with a sigh. ''As you both know, I have no permanent dwellings in Middle-earth, and I very much doubt it that Ingwil… Lindir would be able to live with us on the road. Nor could I offer him the same tutoring he is given here, in Imladris. So I would ask the Lord and the Lady of the Valley to keep him and protect him and teach him, until he reaches legal age and decides for himself where he would prefer to live.''

Lindir glared with wide, unbelieving eyes at the Elf-Lord. Gildor sighed again and smiled sadly.

''I am not your enemy, Lindir. I am your kinsman, and though I would like to have you with me, for I have no children of my own, 'tis my duty to handle according your best interests. And right now, the best possible place for you to live _is_ in Imladris, where, as you said yourself, is your home. I shall not take it from you.''

''Then we do have an agreement in this matter, do we?'', Elrond asked.

Everyone nodded.

''Very good. Now, Erestor, take the Lady Aquiel to her chambers in the wing where our family lives, and do prepare rooms for Gildor in the guest wing, pray you.''

''Mayhap I might be of some help'', Arwen rose voluntarily. ''Seldom do we have ladies of high birth visiting our home; I know a little more of their needs than Erestor does.''

''That would be very friendly of you'', Elrond agreed. ''Take your brothers, too, if you would. We have to discuss some matters that are not meant for the ears of young people.''

The younger Elves left the library with Erestor, Lindir following them without being instructed to do so. Elrond waited til they were far enough, then asked with a sigh:

''Are you sure that we have done the right thing? Lindir is still too young to understand what he just has rejected.''

''_I am_'', Celebrían answered immediately. ''Remember, how long it had taken Lindir to get accustomed to Imladris in the first place. I doubt not that he would rather flee his body than lose the only home he knows. Nay; we have to wait til he grows strong enough to leave on his own free will – if ever.''

''I would gladly take him as the son I never had'', Gildor admitted with a sigh, ''for he is the last male descendant of Orodreth's line, and it pains me to see someone of royal blood to reject his rightful heritage. Yet we cannot force him to become someone he is cleary not. He might have the pride and willfulness of our family, but he has no warrior's fire in his heart.''

'''Tis worse than you might think'', Glorfindel told him. ''Lindir refuses to even touch any weapons – no doubt, Aiwendil's undoing, this is. He hates violence so much, he did not understand that the boy would be completely defenseless in the outside world. He needs a safe place to survive.''

''So we shall have to raise a son of Kings as a mere esquire'', Gildor murmured in deep disapproval, ''For he would not even use his true name, it seems.''

''That might change'', said Celebrían, ''give him time. It always troubled him that he knew naught of his own origins. He might never use his true name, but I do believe he shall grow interested in our family's history. I shall look into this to happen.''

Gildor bowed his head thankfully; then he pulled a mesasge tube from his belt bag and reached it her.

''Now, about the more urgent matters'', he said. ''Crossing Lórien and resting in Caras Galadhon for a while, I had some counsel with the Lord Celeborn, and it seems that they are having certain… difficulties over there.''

''How that?'', Celebrían took the message scroll from the silver tube and unrolled it. ''Is Prince Amroth feeling rebellious again?''

''Well, 'Prince Amroth' is not the right title any more'', Gildor answered grimly. ''The juvenile son of the late King Amdír has just declared himself the King of Lórien, and a great many Galadhrim have already accepted his claim.''

''And rightly so'', Elrond said, though frowning a little. ''He _was_ officially named the Heir of Lórien, after all – had been ever since his father was slain upon the plains of Dagorlad. Galadriel and Celeborn were only meant to rule til he comes of age. And _that_ has happened more than three hundred years ago.''

''True, but many of the Silvan folk were content with their rule and want no youngling to take over'', replied Gildor. ''Half of the Galadhrim chose to stay under the leadeship of the Lady and the Lord of the Wood. So, now there are _two_ realms in the Golden Wood: the small kingdom of Amroth, form the Naith to the river that joins the Celebrant – and Caras Galadhon, the Tree City of Celeborn and Galadriel.''

''Whom does Haldir serve now?'', Glorfindel asked.

''Why, the young King, of course'', Gildor shrugged. ''He used to be Amroth's tutor and personal guard, after all. Now, he is the King's First Captain and counsellor. He even lives under Amroth's roof, with both his brothers.''

''This is no good'', Elrond said, deeply concerned. ''The last thing we need is another Kinslaying among ourselves. And with the Lady Galadriel being hard as diamonds and King Amroth being stubborn as only a Wood-Elf can be(8), there is a very true danger of this to happen.''

''I belive my mother might have found a solution'', Celebrían rolled the message scroll together again, ''but you probably would not like it. I certainly do not.''

* * * * * * * * * *

Well – was it not mean to stop right here? Sorry this is as far as I could come in two days.

Next, we shall witness the Lady Arwen's Choosing Ceremony and listen to some girl talk among Elven ladies. g

End notes (or food for the nitpickers):

(1) The 72-day-long winter season.  
(2) The 54-day-long stirring season.  
(3) Well, as you can see, I had a change of heart considering Gildor's ancestry and put him up one step in the ranks. (Mostly because I needed to adjust this tale to my Eönwë-story). Of course, there is absolutely no canon fact that would support my theory, except that Gildor introduced himself to frodo as ''Gildor Inglorion of the hosue of Finrod''. I made it up, just as I made up his mother.  
(4) I assumed it to be an Elven tradition to accept the Wandering Companies in one's house, even for longer periods of time. Please, don't ask me how it was regulated to re-pay for the hospitality - I honestly have no idea. I just wanted Gildor's people there for some amount of time. I'll insert a good explanation as soon as I can think of one.  
(5) In my interpretation Celebrían was not born in Lórien, but in Edhellond, much earlier, though she still was a grat deal younger than Elrond. But she lived in Lórien many long seasons, and of all her dwelling places this was for her heart the dearest.  
(6) Túrin Turambar, son of Húrin, whom Finduilas involuntarily fell in love with.  
(7) This is the name Túrin gave Finduilas. The whole thing is, of course, made up by me.  
(8) Actually, Amroth is said to be of Sindarin descent in 'The Unfinished Tales' - though as one who had absorbed the customs and thinking of the Silvan folk. I don't intend to make him a full-blooded Wood-Elf, of course; Elrond only menas that he is stubborn *as* a Wood-Elf.


	8. Interlude: First Choice of Arwen, Elven ...

INNOCENCE

**by Soledad Cartwright**

Disclaimer:

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Fíriel still belongs to Deborah. Only the Lady Aquiel belongs to me – and the enigmatic Wandering Company of Gildor.

Rating: PG-13 for this chapter, for implied m/m and m/f content.

Please read Warnings before the Prologue.

**Author's Notes:**

Time: year 607, 3rd Age

Summary: Arwen makes her choice.

And once again, I have to bow deeply to the Lady Deborah, officially declared muse of my LOTR-universe, without whom this chapter would never have born. She asked me who Arwen might have been with during all this time, and I felt obligated to answer her question. So, this is the answer… and I hope you haven't thought of _this_, otherwise all the fun would be spoiled.

This isn't really a chapter, because it is about Arwen and her first lover, so I call it an interlude. It ends before Arwen's Choosing Ceremony however, and indicates nothing of her ongoing affair with her Chosen One (yet), which will be heavily frowned upon by Elrond. The story goes on for about a fortnight.

By the way, someone asked me to leave my short essay about Elrond's love life online – well, I can't let it where it was originally posted, in-between two chapters, for that would be very distracting. But when I'm finished with this tale, I will attach it as Appendix A. There also will be an Appendix B for the lovers of totally insignificant background trivia (a sect I'm the high priestress of), while all the names of Gildor's wandering companions would be listed, with anything that is known about them (like which Elven kindred they belong, what their strengths and weaknesses are, what family relations exist between them and stuff like that); just for the fun of it. :)

INTERLUDE: FIRST CHOICE OF ARWEN, ELVEN PRINCESS

[The 8th day of _hrívië_, in the year 607 of the Third Age]

The night grew old and the singing and tale-telling in the Hall of Fire slowly came to an end. Arwen regretted this – not that she would have listened to the sweet music of the minstrels that came with Gildor's company or even to Lindir and Elrohir's beautiful music, though the two were growing more and more awesome in their skills with the flute and the harp.

But she was distracted tonight, partly because her Time of Choosing was approaching rapidly and she still had not made her First Choice yet, partly because she was watching the guests of her father with interest.

The Members of the Wandering Company settled down for the long winter season in Imladris, and were now wearing richly adorned clothes of Noldorin or Telerin fashion; though a few of them were clad like Wood-Elves, even those robes were finely made. No-one would have mistaken their tall and beautiful women for young males any more, nor their proud and fair men for some homeless wanderers.(1)

Even more profound seemed the change in the appearance of their Lord. Wearing a heavy velvet robe of royal blue over his gold-embroided, pale silk tunic, his gleaming hair artfully braided like a golden coronet, Gildor Inglorion looked like a King of the Elder Days, with the crest of Finrod's House on his breast; and on his neck he wore a carcanet of gold, set with many gems – a necklace, or more a collar, made of the likeness of _Nauglamír_, the one and only, made for Finrod by the Dwarves.

Proud and kingly he semed in the eyes of Arwen, even more so than her own father, who displayed his inherited royalty in a less flamboyant manner – and the Lady Aquiel on his side looked like a queen of the Blessed Realm in her silky gown of midnight blue that seemed to float around her slender body, leaving both her shoulders free, to be covered by the gleaming curtain of her unbraided hair only. She seemed unaware of all the awestruck glares aimed at her, talking to Erestor in a friendly manner and deliberately ignoring the disapproving frown of her uncle.

Arwen understood not Gildor's dislike of Erestor. Surely, her father's seneschal was of common birth, but it made him no less of a gentle and wise young Elf – or a fierce warrior, if that side of him was needed. She tried to ask Glorfindel about it, but the ancient Elf only shrugged and muttered something about 'the haughtiness of the Finwëans', without explaining what he meant. So Arwen was on her own in this matter, unless she could get some help from Aquiel, which she very much intended to seek out.

Time and again their eyes met, as if Gildor had felt being watched – mayhap he truly had. One did not spend hundreds of years wandering across Middle-earth without developing very keen senses, even by the measure of Elves. Once he held her eyes captive with his sea-hued ones for a long moment, and Arwen felt herself blushing and turned away, but not before noticing that small, self-content smile in the corner of Gildor's mouth.

That smile made her furious. How did he _dare_ to smile like that! As if she had glared at him like some silly, lovesick young elfling!

Alas, after a moment of fuming she had to admit – at least to herself – that yes, she actually _had_ glared at him like that.

_At least my mouth had not hung open!_, she thought, deeply humiliated for a moment. She knew her unusual interest was partly due to her upcoming Time of Choosing; still, it was a behaviour unbecoming of any Elf lady, and even more so of a Princess like her. She forced herself to listen to the Hymn of Varda that had been selected as the final song of this evening and sung by the Lady Aquiel in Quenya, while Elrohir and Lindir played the music to it.

A Fana-losse! Heri silma!   
Tári Eari pella Númenye!   
Calina men i ranyar   
sina mi aldarembea ambar!   
Fana-losse, a Varda Elentári,   
Calina mí aldarembea ambar! 

A Tintalle! Elentári!   
Silma hendulya, calima súlya.   
Fana-losse, laitammel   
Earen pella hairanóriesse.   
Len lirimme, a Varda Elentári,   
laitalinde hairanóriesse. 

A eleni yar rende márya   
sílala i Yénesse Alanarya,   
telpelossenen laiya   
calima mí súrimar sí tye cenimme.   
Fana-losse, a Varda Elentári,   
telpelosse calima cenimme. 

A Elentári! a Tintalle!   
Sinome nu i aldali háya   
men enyalie mare   
silmelyo or i Eari Númenye.   
Enyalimme, a Varda Elentári,   
silme or i Eari Númenye(2). 

Finally the music came to an end. Lindir and Elrohir rose, and together with the Lady Aquiel, they accepted the praise with a smile (well, in Elrohir's case more with a grin) and left the Hall of Fire together. Erestor, too, took his leave from the Lord and the Lady of the Valley and joined Lindir who was waiting for him in the antechamber, eager to explain some of the fine points of the music that had been made tonight.

Arwen stole a glance at Gildor and saw him scowling slightly. He might have agreed to leave Lindir in Imladris, but he most obviously disliked his nephew-from-afar's closeness to Erestor.

Their eyes met again, and this time Arwen gave the high-ranking guest a scowl of her own. Why could he not leave Erestor alone? Surprisingly, Gildor rose from his seat with the sleek smoothness of a born predator and crossed the Hall to join her.

''Have I somehow raised your disapproval, Lady Arwen?'', he asked; but there was no playful tone in his clear, slightly hard voice.

This was a serious question, and Arwen decided to answer it with equal seriousness.

''Aye, you have, my Lord. I very much dislike the way you handle poor Erestor'', she said straight out. '''Tis unbecoming of a Lord of your high status – and fully undeserved by him.''

''_How_ do I handle him?'', Gildor inquiered, arching an elegant eyebrow.

He clearly did not understand Arwen's dismay.

''Like a servant'', said Arwen. ''Like someone who is beneath you.''

''Well, actually…'', the Elf-Lord began, but Arwen interrupted him.

''He has foster son's status in our House; but even if he did not, you still would have no right to handle him like you do. Being born to a noble family is an advantage, given to you, not your own doing – so you have no reason to be this haughty.''

''You mistake pride for haughtiness, Lady Arwen'', Gildor said; ''yet you see not that pride is very important for noble families. It makes us eager to be worthy of the proud traditions of our kind and urges us to the greatest deeds possible.''

''And just what greet deeds, pray you, can _you_ praise yourself to have accomplished?'', Arwen asked pointedly. ''You fought valiantly in the recent war, I give you _that_. But many other people did the same, noble and less noble ones… And ever since the fall of Sauron, no-one had heard any tidings of any deeds of yours. You might have been one of the highest-ranking Princes in the court of the High King during the last Age, but right now you are no Lord of aught, not even that of the South Haven, just a restless wanderer.''

The hard, beautiful face of the Elf-Lord did not betray the least emotion; only in his eyes flickered hurt pride for a short moment.

''You are right in this, of course'', he said; ''the only true home I have ever had would have been Nargothrond, and that was destroyed long before my birth. The time of the Noldorin kingdoms is over, and though after Gil-galad's fall royalty would have been transferred to me (and it would be the birthright of that youngling you raise as a dreamer in this very valley), there is no kingdom more for me to rule, nor followers to lead. This Company I travel with is my only court, and my palace is a plain house in the South Haven'', he added bitterly.

He took a deep, calming breath ere he fared forth.

''So forgive me, Lady, if I do not willingly mingle with common people. You might find my pride misplaced, yet 'tis the only thing left of my inheritance. Your father has no title to wear, yet he is King of this enchanted realm. I could wear the title of the '_finwë_'(3) with full right; but there is naught for me left to reign over. Even my own flesh and blood has rejected me.''

''I understood how that can be hurtful'', said Arwen thoughtfully, ''yet it still gives you no right to handle Erestor as you do. And I suspect there is more than just his birth that makes him so… unpleasant in your eyes.''

''You are wise beyond your age, Lady Arwen'', Gildor sighed. ''I have a personal grudge against him: the simple fact that he succeeded to escape the fall of Eregion while its Lord did not''; he touched his magnificent necklace lightly. ''Celebrimbor was no mere cousin for me; he was my closest friend, the last one of a once so great and proud House; and you can see the beauty his art and skill were able to create, even in exile. Evey time I look at your father's seneschal, I see my dead friend before my eyes.''

''Yet you hesitated not to save Erestor's life in that last battle, or so I am told'', Arwen said. Gildor shrugged.

''His death would not have brought my cousin back from Mandos' Halls. We had already lost too many of our people.''

Arwen sighed, shaking her head with a smile.

''You are not an easy Elf to understand, Gildor Inglorion.''

''Comes with my advanced age'', he replied with a grin; ''and with the 'haughtiness of the Finwëans', as Master Glorfindel doubtlessly had told you many times. But as curtesy of the one who walks the Earth in the likeness of Lúthien Tinúviel, I shall try to restrain my foolish pride for the time of my staying and be friendly with the common crowd.''

With that, he leaned over, took Arwen's face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth, lingering on her lips for an extended moment ere he let go of her and turned on his heals and left, taking no notice of Elrond's murderous glare from across the Hall.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

[The 25th day of _hrívië_, in the year 607 of the Third Age.]

Time, as usual, seemed to flow by unnoticed in the enchanted valley of Imladris. The Wandering Company of Gildor Inglorion blended in seamlessly with everyday's life, willingly taking their part in the labours that had to be made.

There were healers among them who volunteered to help Fíriel and her pupils and could even teach them new things about the one or other herb they had discovered along their long travels, Others knew much about horses, even though they all preferred to travel afoot and touch the flesh of the Earth with every step, and Arwen greatly enjoyed working with them, mostly with Isfin(4), an older and somewhat hard-mannered woman, who had Nandorin blood in her veins and travelled through Eriador during the entire Second Age, and there was naught she would not know about horses.

And they had minstrels among them as well – as it was time-honoured custom among the Wandering Companies, who would travel across the lands and carry the songs and lays and stories from North to South and back.(5) One of them was a Nandor Elf, too, one of the few survivors of the First Age(6), born in Doriath, no less; he even had the privilege to listen to Daeron the Great in his youth and had seen Lúthien with his own eyes.

Orgof(7), for so his name sounded, seemed very impressed with Lindir's talent and asked for Elrond's leave to teach him, together with his fellow minstrels: Nuinor(8), a Telerin woman of equally high age and two younger Noldorin males, Melthinorn and Falathar(9).

At first Lindir was very suspicious, but when he understood that there were secrets among minstrels that not even the greatest of lore-masters could have taught him, he finally agreed – and came back from his lessons aglow with amazement, for Orgof knew old lays that had not been sung since the fall of Doriath, and Nuinor was a master of the flute; and he even began to learn how to master the harp from Melthinorn; something Elrond could never argue him into learning, for he always felt he could not reach Elrohir's skills.

But more importantly, the wandering minstrels knew secret ways to unfold that rare gift only born minstrels possessed: the gift to make things of which they sang appear before the eyes of those that listened.

So, the members of the Wandering Company made themselves useful, as it was their custom when tarrying in a city for a longer periond of time, and the Elves of Imladris enjoyed their company in the long winter evenings. And, truth be told, the one who enjoyed it most was Arwen herself. She had not yet travelled any further than Lothlórien, and the Lady Aquiel proved to be not wise only, but also high-spirited and full of mischief – so very different from her proud and somewhat stiff-necked uncle.

For though Gildor Inglorion had agreeed to leave Lindir in his chosen home, he insisted that the young Elf learnt the proud history of his noble family and be treated according his heritage. Therefore he most indignantly objected to his status as a mere esquire and demanded that Lindir spent a certain amount of time with him, so that he could 'correct the faults in his education', as he said.

This infuriated both Elrond and Erestor, of course, but Lindir only laughed and granted willingly the wish of his uncle-from-afar – as long as he was assured that he could remain in Imladris.

''Let him have his way, my Lord'', he said to Elrond. ''I can handle him. He is not all that bad as he likes to show off himself. I believe he is lonely; just too proud to admit it. And he _is_ family, after all. Just let him not take me away, I beg you.''

Elrond reluctantly agreed, and things seemed to go on surprisingly well from that day on, found Arwen, gathering some dried fruits and seed cakes for her ''ladies' evening'' with Aquiel. Ever since the most intriguing house guests arrived, they have planned this little get-together, but could not make it until now.

It was a beautiful, cold winter afternoon, some two hours before sunset; fortunately, cold weather bothered Elves very little, even less so when they wore fur-lined, warm clothes as the two young ladies did, sitting comfortably on Aquiel's balcony, a crystal bottle of _miruvor_ and two masterfully-cut goblets (the guest-gifts of Gildor, made by the skilled hands of Findobar(10), one of his followers), fruits and cakes in front of them, upon a small, onyx-plated, bronze-legged round table. With other words: they were prepared for a lengthy talk.

''Why did you want your Choosing Ceremony to be in Mithlond?'', Arwen asked, after they had spoken a little about their previous journeys and came to things of true interest. ''Why not in the South Havens where you have spent your whole youth? Or in Lothlórien?''

Aquiel shrugged.

''Places are of no importance for the Wandering Companies – though Elostirion is mayhap the most sacred one in Middle-earth. But I wanted to look into the Seeing Stone before making any choice – to see beyond the bent Sea to the Realm that is faultless and everlasting.''

''Was it worth such a long journey?'', Arwen asked. Aquiel nodded, slowly, thoughtfully.

''There are no words, not even in the Ancient Tongue to describe it…'', she shot Arwen an inquiring glance. ''Have you never…?''

Arwen shook her head.

''Nay, our family never travels that way. It would be dangerous for us to come near the Sea. Our mortal blood roots us in this Earth deeper than other Elves, save the Silvan folk mayhap, and should the Sea-longing awake in our hearts, it would tear us apart. Not even Father comes near the shores any more, albeit he has already made his final choice, Ages ago.''

Aquiel thought about this for a moment.

''It must be hurtful'', she finally said, ''to live this close to the Sea and never see it.''

''We live not _that_ close'', Arwen remainded her mildly. ''Many long leagues separate us from the Sea and its dangerous luring.''

''And yet naught they are, by the measure of our people'', Aquiel replied, ''and if 'tis truly so dangerous for you to come close to the shores, then I cannot help but feel pity for you. For a great beauty is taken from you til the day of your final choice, both in view and in music''; she laid a hand upon her own heart. ''Once you have heard the never-ending murmurs of the Sea, the music of tides rolling against the shores, it will sing in your heart forever, as it even sings and murmurs in empty seashells washed ashore after the life had gone from them.''

Arwen felt a slight sting, for she knew she would never be allowed to live on the shores, unless she made the final choice of her life at a much too young age, which she intended not. For the longings of her mortal and Elven blood fought a constant battle in her heart, just as it was the case with Elladan, and she knew it would be wrong to choose ere she had carefully considered all her choices.

''Tell me about Mithlond'', she asked. ''What is it like?(11)''

''Well, said Aquiel thoughtfully, '''tis like any other fishing town, I presume – though Mithlond itself is a pair of _cities_, not a mere village of sea-farers. The harbor is very important, of course, but the Sea alone could not sustain the Falathrim. So they also hunt for hides and meat, aside of fishing, and they have gardens for other sorts of food. All in all, 'tis not that different from any haven I have seen… and I _have_ had my fair share of them.''

''Have you stayed in the Havens themselves?'' Arwen inquired. Aquiel nodded, her eyes becoming dreamy with memories.

''My uncle and I were the guests of Lord Círdan, while the others stayed in different towns and villages along the shores and went to Sea with the Falathrim. We could not handle the ships, of course, but we helped them to sing the fish in the nets and lured the crabs and lobsters from the water right into the cages with our songs. It was most exciting.''

''You went to Sea yourself?'', asked Arwen in honest surprise. Aquiel was so very queenly, so very lady-like, she did not seem to her as someone who spends her time on board of a fishing boot.

''Oh, I went, indeed'', Aquiel laughed, ''after all, we _do_ have some Telerin blood in the family as well. I spent a great many days on the ship of the Lord Galdor; we shared songs and tales and merriment and some good wine.''

''Galdor? The same one who fought with Glorfindel against Morgoth's hosts in Gondolin ere its fall? Is he not supposed to have left for the Blessed Realm Ages ago?(12)''

''Well, it seems that he has tarried a little'', Aquiel said with a fond smile. ''He has a great house in Mithlond, with large and comfortable halls on three levels, where he dwels with all his kinfolk: his sisters and their families. It has workshops, a walled courtyard, a small orchard, a beautiful garden and even its adjoining wood, for the Falathrim need the wood for their ships. And they have a few meadows, near the house, where their horses are held.''

''You seem to know very much about this Lord'', Arwen remarked. Aquiel nodded.

''True. We have become very close. He is a wonderful person: strong yet gentle, and merry as a child. He taught me the speech of the Sea-Elves and wondrous songs about the Sea and introduced me to his kinfolk. Did you know that Celebwen, Princess of Emyn Galen(13), has wedded one of his nephews?''

Arwen shook her head, smiling.

''Tidings come not often from the realm of King Thranduil. He is not very fond of our family. But _you_ have grown fond of the Lord Galdor, I deem.''

''I have'', Aquiel nodded; ''that is why I have chosen him for my First Time.''

''Galdor?'', Arwen frowned. ''Was it not a little… awkward? With him being a First Age war hero and twice the age of your parents?''

''Why, 'tis the whole reason for the Choosing Ceremony'', Aquiel replied with a shrug. ''We are _supposed_ to choose an older, experienced lover for our First Time – and I certainly did not regret choosing Galdor.''

''I guess you are right'', said Arwen, still a little doubtful. ''To tell the truth, I had trouble to understand Elladan choosing Master Glorfindel as well.''

''Most young men choose a male lover for their First Time'', Aquiel said. ''They can learn better the ways of loving from another male, or so 'tis said. And Master Glorfindel certainly has the experience of two lifetimes.''

''I would not know'', Arwen answered. ''He is the only one who even spends the festivals alone. No-one has ever seen him taking a lover, they say – though I also heard that Erestor had chosen him for the First Time, too.''

'''Tis known to happen at times to the Wise, or to Masters, that they go up in their task so completely that they have no desire for love'', Aquiel pondered, ''though 'tis also said to be very, _very_ rare. Mayhap having been dead once already _did_ change him more profoundly than we might think.''

''I know not'', Arwen shrugged; ''but sometimes we try to explain everything about him with his time in Mandos' Halls. I have my doubts in this.''

''Did Elrohir chose him as well?'', Aquiel asked. Arwen shook her head.

''Nay, he did not. He had his Ceremony much later, in Lothlórien, and chose one of the Wise Woman of the Galadhrim. The Lady Galadriel was not pleased.''

''Why not?'', Aquiel asked in surprise. Galadriel _was_ the queen of the Galadhrim, after all. Or, at least, she had ruled them… until recently.

''She chose to _rule_ the Silvan folk, not to _mingle_ with them. She was not pleased when Mother took over so many of their customs, either'', Arwen lowered her voice. ''Ere she even met Father, Mother had been promised to Amdír, King of Lórien, but grandmother found it an unworthy choice and forced them apart.''

''Then the Lady Celebrían had _not_ married Master Elrond out of Love?'', Aquiel truly was thunderstruck now. But Arwen only laughed.

''Oh, she _did_ marry him out of love. Sure, it took her a long time to forget her first lover, but Father had been as persuasive as ever, and at the end won her heart. Cannot you see how they are glowing with love for each other every moment they spend together?''

''I can'', said Aquiel, ''and I wish for myself to find a love like that one day. That is why it surprised me so much that once she had intended to bond with another one.''

'''Twas the folly of youth'', Arwen shrugged. ''Mother says, it might have lasted even shorter, had grandmother not interfered. Mother can be quite headstrong, too, and by law, the choice _was_ hers.''

''Which strong-headedness she no doubt inherited from the Lady Galadriel'', Aquiel said. ''The Lord Celeborn is so much…calmer, almost serene… Their marriage truly is an enigma for me.''

''Grandfather is one of the Wise'', Arwen replied, ''and certainly much more powerful than most people might think. Mother says, he is the only force in Middle-earth that can restrain the Lady Galadriel. It might seem as if his wife would be the one who rules, but the Lord of Trees possesses strength and wisdom few of us can even imagine. And _he_ is the one the Galadhrim truly respect – for he never left Middle-earth, unlike the nobles of the Eldar, and his roots in this Earth are very deep. Should he ever be forced to leave, it certainly would break his heart.''

''I rarely spoke with him at all'', Aquiel admitted regretfully. ''It was always the Lady Galadriel who taught me.''

''Then you have chosen the wrong tutor'', said Arwen; ''though for a Lady of the Noldor, one of royal blood, it might not even be the wrong choice.''

''What about you?'', Aquiel asked. ''Who was your tutor in the Golden Wood?''

''Both of them, of course'', Arwen said with a smile; ''yet in all my life I was much closer to the Lord Celeborn; just as Mother has been. Even thought I come after grandmother in many ways, or so they say.''

They remained silent for a while, warming themselves with some _miruvor_. Then Arwen turned to her new friend again and asked:

''Tell me about your uncle. How come he is unmarried and has no children of his own?''

''I know not'', Aquiel sighed. ''Our Elders say that there was someone once whom he loved very much: a lady back then in Gil-galad's court; but she chose a mere sailor from Círdan's people over him, and their ship sank shortly thereafter. I know not if 'tis true. But he _has_ lived more or less alone, ever since I came into his care. Sure, he has had consorts and bedmates as all unbound Elves have, but no-one special. And it never lasted.''

She shook Arwen a curious look.

''Are you interested in him?''

Arwen shrugged.

''Maybe. I'm not certain yet. It seems, however, that _he_ is very much interested in _me_ – either that, or he likes making Father furious.''

''I remember… our first evening in the Hall of Fire'', Aquiel laughed. ''I thought Master Elrond would tear him to pieces with his bare hands. I blame him not; my uncle can be infuriating at times. Does he still pursue you?''

''Al the time'', Arwen shook her head in silent anger. ''He is constantly teasing me in front of others. He often corners me in empty archways or joins me on lonely paths outside the house, just to be seen with me… as if trying to frighten me or make me feel uncomfortable.''

''With no results as I can see'', Aquiel remarked, smiling.

'''Tis not completely true'', Arwen admitted. ''He _does_ make me uncomfortable… and excited at the same time. I feel myself being drawn to him, for he _is_ noble and fair and strong – you know how difficult control becomes so near the Time of Choosing. And he plays with my disturbed feelings shamelessly.''

''He _can_ be cruel at times'', Aquiel agreed, ''_and_ he is often selfish. You should teach him a lesson.''

''Oh, I intend to'', Arwen replied with a wicked grin. ''One he likely shall never forget!''

''Tell me!'', Aquiel insisted, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

''I shall'', Arwen laughed, ''but you must swear to keep this to yourself til the Ceremony.''

Aquiel nodded, barely able to restrain her curiosity.

''Sure, I swear. I never would spoil a good lesson my beloved uncle so richly deserves. Now, tell me!''

Arwen leaned close, so close that their faces nearly touched, and whispered in an elegantly curved ear, half-buried under golden tresses:

''I intend to choose him for my First Time!''

''Elbereth!'', Aquiel burst out, laughing so hard she could barely breathe. ''Oh, you truly are a wicked, wicked one, Arwen! 'Tis the best thing you could have thought of! But'', she added, at once sober again, ''I fear your father would not approve.''

''I care not'', said Arwen with a shrug. ''Mother does; and this is _my_ Choosing Ceremony anyway, and I can choose whom I want. And I want Gildor Inglorion pay for all the inconveniences he has caused me in these days. By choosing him, I can make _him_ satisfy _my_ wishes for a change. I shall enjoy my vengeance greatly.''

''He certainly deserves it'', Aquiel agreed'', yet I believe he would be a good choice anyway. You shall learn much from him while teaching him that lesson. All his lovers left in the morrow after with a dreamy smile on their faces.''

They giggled, very un-ladylike; then Aquiel sobered again and added:

''But choose him not only because you are angry with him. I do believe there is more from his part than the simple wish to make your father furious. I think there is genuine interest; and who could blame him for that? Such beauty as yours has not adorned the Earth since Lúthien Tinúviel – and if the old lays Orgof is so fond of tell the truth, you walk the realm of Arda in her likeness. My uncle deserves his lesson, 'tis true; but I wish him not to be hurt – or you.''

'''Tis not vengeance alone'', replied Arwen seriously. ''Your people came like a gift of Yavanna at this very time. For whom, save Glorfindel, could I have chosen here? Most people in Imladris are either bound or much too young for that – and I wanted not my Ceremony to be in Lothlórien, for I wished not the Lady of the Wood to interfere with my choice.''

''As long as the Lady Celebrían approves…'', Aquiel trailed off. Arwen smiled.

''She does. She told me to follow my heart – and that she trusts me enough to leave me choose freely. I am glad she does, though. I shall need an ally when Fater learns about my choice.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

To say that Elrond was _not_ happy with the choice of his daughter would have been the understatement of the century. The Lord of Imladris was genuinely fuming, strolling up and down in his bedchamber with long, angry strides, looking every bit the agitated warrior he had been during his last great battle, when the Last Alliance of Elves and Men finally managed to overthrow the Dark Lord.

''She must have lost her mind'', he fumed, ''or Gildor must have her under some sort of spell. Our serene daughter could never feel a man like him!''

Celebrían sat before the large mirror, combing her knee-long, silver hair and re-braiding it for the night and smiled patiently.

''The Time of Choosing is not a time for lore and wisdom but one of the stirring of body and heart, and you know that'', she answered. ''I agree with our daughter's First Choice.''

Elrond stopped his strolling and glared at his Lady with unbelieving eyes.

''You _approve_?''

''Certainly'', Celebrían nodded, finisheing her evening preparations and raising from her seat. ''Let your dislike not cloud your judgement, beloved. Gildor Inglorion is an excellent First Choice: a proud and noble man, a Lord of royal blood, a seasoned warrior… and surely fair and kingly in appearance. Not to mention that he is old enough to possess all the necessary skills to lead our daughter over the threshold of adulthood.''

''Are you certain that 'tis all what lies beyond her choice?'', Elrond asked.

''At this moment, I am fairly sure'', the Lady of the Valley smiled, albeit a little sadly; ''though we cannot foresee what might come later. But I trust our daughter to make all the right choices – now and later, when it shall be for eternity. He is so much like her father in her wisdom.''

''Have _I_ made all the right choices, my silver queen?'' Elrond teased her, smiling. Celebrían smiled back.

''That is something _you_ have to decide, my Lord. _I_ for my part have always been satisfied with your choices.''

''Have you, hmmm? And _are_ you still?''

''Oh, very much. Mayhap I should show you…''

''That'', declared Elrond, sweeping his wife up in his arms; ''is the best choice any one has made all day.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Well, that's all for today. Next we return to Lindir and his family bonding with the Lady Aquiel – and we'll see what Elrohir thinks of it.

End notes:

(If you're a lover of insignificant background trivia. Otherwise just skip it!)

(1) Michael Martinez assumes that travelling was a lifestyle for certain Elves, not a mere lack of permanent dwellings. They would move from one temporary home to another and return, sometimes years later, before starting the cycle again.  
(2) Translated by Findegil / Björn Fromén   
This is a translation of the song "Snow-white!" (LR 1 III), adapted to fit the tune of the 15th century hymn Alta Trinita Beata. In the process an invocation and an echoing line have been added to each stanza. Found on the Mellonath Daeron website. This is the same song Gildor and his Company was singing when they met Frodo and his fellow hobbits in the Shire.  
(3) According to Michael Martinez, the name of Finwë, first and greatest High King of the Noldor in the Blessed Realm, might have become a title in Middle-earth, just like that of Caesar in Ancient Rome. See: ''It is all in the family: the Finwëans''.  
(4) Was originally meant to be the name of Aredhel, Turgon's sister. I chose the name because it sounds rather differently from the average Elven names, and I wanted the Wandering Company to have different customs, even in the naming of its members.  
(5) At least this is what Michael Martinez presumes in his article ''The Magic of the Minstrels''. All minstrel-related theories are borrowed from there.  
(6) Nandor Elves were Teleri, who came later than the rest of their people to the West and remained in Ossiriand after the others left for the Blessed Realm. Most of them were slain in the First Age, in one of the battles of Beleriand or during the destruction of Doriath.  
(7) Was originally meant to be the name of Saeros, the Nandor Elf in Doriath who was slain by Túrin. Chosen for the same reason as Isfin.  
(8) Earlier form of Nienor, which was the name of Túrin's sister.  
(9) Melthinor was an earlier name for the Tree of Gold. Falathar was originally one of Eärendil's companions.  
(10) I assumed that - aside of minstrels, healers, archers and horse-grooms - the Wandering Companies also had to have craftsmen (craftsbeings?) among them, to re-pay somehow the hospitality along their journey.  
(11) And once again, I can thank for the ideas about Mithlond the great Michael Martinez, without whose article, ''Life in an Elven fishing town'', this chapter would be much shorter - but most likely a lot less interesting.  
(12) Actually, he is. But I kept him on Middle-earth a little longer. More about this is said in the notes of ''Riddles of Doom and Paths of Love''.  
(13) Greenwood the Great, later known as Mirkwood. Celebwen, the ''silver maiden'', is the older sister of Legolas Greenleaf (and she is mine, completely).


	9. Chapter 6: Stirring of Hearts Lalaith

**INNOCENCE**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Fíriel still belongs to Deborah. Only Erestor's family and the members of the Wandering Company belong to me.

**Rating:** PG for this chapter.

Please read Warnings before the Prologue.

**Author's Notes:**

We learn a little about Elrond and Gildor's former relationship and why Imladris actually was found; there is less about Lindir and Erestor this time and more about other characters, I hope you don't mind that it got a little eclectic. Quite frankly, I'm glad to have overcome my serious writer's block even so far. BTW, this is a repost – the extended version of the original chapter. The archery contest was inspired by Sir Walter Scott's "Ivanhoe".

Finally, one more word: for the 1000th time, this is not an AU. I have not changed any of the established facts in the trilogy, The Hobbit, The Silmarillion or The Unfinished Tales. This is a series of "missing scenes", filling the huge gaps of canon with my imagination. You are free to disagree with my take on story and certain characters. However, that will make this story not an AU. It was never meant to be one, nor will it ever be.

My heartfelt thanks go to my good friend Jenn for proofreading. All remaining mistakes are mine, stubborn person as I am.

**CHAPTER 6: STIRRING OF HEARTS – LALAITH**

**[_Mettar_(1) in the year 639 of the Third Age]**

Sitting in the now-empty study of the Lord of the Valley, Erestor, seneschal of Rivendell and chief counsellor of Elrond's House, felt drained. His day had been a busy one, just like the one before, starting early – and, most likely, due to end very, very late. Preparations for tomorrow's celebration of the welcoming of _tuil_(2) had to be made, but at the same time also the usual inventories had to be taken, for the seasonal year had reached its end with the current day of mettarë, and tomorrow a new year was going to begin with _yestar_(3), invoking the upcoming spring.

While originally founded to be a fortress, Imladris had grown to a sprawling settlement of great beauty, merriment and quiet peace during the Third Age. For his part, Erestor welcomed this turn of events. He had seen enough bloodshed and death already. The quiet life in the Last Homely House suited him well.

Except of this time of the year, of course. Although Lindir had grown to become a very useful aide for the Master of the House, taking over a good part of the seneschal's duties, Erestor felt drowning in work. As if the usual preparations had not been enough, they also had Gildor's people staying with them for another cold season, the usual visitors from the Havens and from the allied kingdoms of Men, and Haldir of Lórien, too, dropped by a few days ago, with a message of Lord Amroth, the new King (although Erestor had the sneaking suspicion that Haldir only volunteered as a messenger to see Fíriel again – the two of them had become increasingly close during the recent years).

The Wandering Company had established a temporary home in the valley during the last decades; they would come at the beginning of _hrívi_(4), once in every fourth or fifth year, stay til the beginning of the new seasonal cycle(5), then get restless again and set off to other places, as it was their custom. During their visits, Erestor slowly got to know them better, and even befriended some of them, mostly the smiths among them, who worked in the smithies of the valley, regularly and with gusto.

The closest he had become with Findobar, the jewel-smith, who worked with crystals mostly – not with crystals made of refined glass but with the sort that had to be cut from the very heart of the mountains. There was a place near Imladris that was rich in those rare gifts of the hills, but no-one among the permanent dwellers of the valley would know the finer tricks of crystal-cutting, so Findobar's lessons were very much asked for. When he had the time, Erestor went down to the workshops himself, to try his hand on his father's crafts once again – and detected with surprise that he had not forgotten everything he had been taught in his youth.

As it was custom among the Wandering Companies, Findobar travelled with his whole family: his father, his older sister and her family, his wife and two grown children, of which the younger one had recently been married and was now with child - a rare occasion among Elves in these days. This was the reason why the company chose to return to Imladris once again; Tinwiel's daughter was to be born in the first half of the spring season, and she wanted to give birth in the safety of Elrond's well-protected realm.

At least one of the reasons, Elrohir thought with a wry smile, for there could be no doubt about that the Lord of the Company himself had entirely different motivations. Everyone with eyes could see how deep Gildor Inglorion had fallen for the Lady Arwen, ever since her Choosing Ceremony, more than thrice ten years ago. He would never miss a chance to return to Imladris – and to her.

As for Arwen, Erestor could not be sure. Elrond's daughter was as hard to figure out as her father, and her only confidant had been the Lady Aquiel so far, who answered all careful, probing questions with an enigmatic smile, naught more. The only known thing was that Arwen and Gildor continued their relationship every time the last Finwëan prince visited the valley with his people.

_Nay, not he only one_, Erestor corrected himself, for it also was clear how much Elrond disliked this relationship, even if he politely tolerated his wife's cousin-from-afar in his house – and in his daughter's bed.

"Why does the Lord of the Valley so loathe Gildor?" Erestor dared to ask Celebrían once, a good ten years into the whole affair. "Would he not be a worthy consort for the Lady Arwen? Not only is he the last rightful Heir of Finwë, he is also considered as one of the Wise – after all, he had _Edhellond_(6) re-built and proved to be a true leader of his people, forming the bond of leadership with them and judging their gifts rightly(7)."

"I cannot say," Celebrían replied thoughtfully. "He never speaks of Gildor – at least not about the times they spent at Gil-galad's court together. Something must have happened between the two of them – something that Gildor had clearly overcome since then, while my husband has not."

"And you, my Lady? Want you not to know what it might be?" Erestor inquired.

Celebrían shook her head. "Nay; if he wants not to speak of it, then 'tis probably better for me not to know. It might make things between my cousin and I... tense."

"Do _you_ approve him being your own daughter's lover, then?" Erestor asked.

"I think not that it would last," Celebrían answered with a smile. "They are too different – and much too headstrong, both of them. Besides," she added, suddenly very serious, "I believe if Arwen chooses to bond wih a King, she would choose one who still does have his kingdom – not an Exile, bereft of his rank and powers."

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Lyrical laughter from the garden interrupted his musings – It sounded like tiny silver bells in a light breeze or like the falling of water over a stone cliff. He rose from his seat to stretch his limbs a little and stepped out on the balcony.

As he had expected, it was the Lady Aquiel – no other being could laugh quite like her, no Elf, no bird, not even the wind on the surface of a quiet lake. Her laughter rang like a crystal waterfall – which was the reason why Lindir gave her the _epess_(8) Lady Lalaith(9), shortly after her arrival. Aquiel accepted the name with another silver laughter, but so far she had only allowed her young cousin to call her like that.

This time, however – to Erestor's slight surprise – she was not in the company of Lindir, whom she had become close with during the recent years, but in that of Elrohir. The younger son of Elrond sat on the rim of a fountain, while Aquiel was working on his hair with a silver comb, smoothing out the tangles and making delicate braids with obvious delight.

Erestor could understand her enjoyment, having made the same many times, first to Elrond and later to his children. Unlike average Elven hair that was like heavy silk to the touch, the hair of Elrond and his children had that rare quality that made it almost weightless, floating by the slightest breeze like a halo around their faces. The twins found it annoying and usually wore their hair in tight braids, like the Silvan folk while on longer journeys, but the Lady Arwen enjoyed it greatly.

Orgof, the eldest minstrel of Gildor's people, who was blessed with having seen Lúthien Tinúviel with his own eyes, swore that this was something they inherited from Lúthien herself, and that their hair had to be at least partially enchanted, just as Lúthien's had been(10) – not that any proof for that would have been found so far.

Aquiel's skilled fingers now wove the thin braids into an intricately-woven coronet on the back of Elrohir's head – it was the same hairdo that Gildor wore on that feast in the Hall of Fire when they visited Imladris for the first time in many hundred years. It was called "the King's Braid" for reasons Erestor knew not – but it suited Elrohir well, emphasizing his noble features and dark beauty. It made Erestor think of Dior the Fair, the son of Lúthien and Beren and heir of Thingol, whom he only knew of old lays, of course, but he doubted that even Dior could have been nobler and more fair in face than Elrond's sons.

Elrohir now rose from the fountain-rim, checked his looks in the water and laughed. He said something that Erestor did not understand, for he kept his voice too low even for the keen Elven ears to understand, but he had to be teasing, for Aquiel laughed again that silver laughter of her and gave him a jab between his ribs with her elbow. Elrohir laughed, too, caught her arm, spun her around – and kissed her soundly.

Erestor went numb on the spot where he was standing. For years now had he watched the playful teasing between Lindir and his cousin, and at times he almost believed there would be something more. Sure, they were related, but only from afar – far enough that the laws and customs of the Firstborn would allow a bond – and a marriage – between them, and the Lady Aquiel, in Erestor's opinion, would have been just perfect for Lindir. Being doubtlessly the stronger one from the two of them, she could have protected him, and being an apprentice lore-master, she would have much in common with him. Not to mention the deep love for music and poetry they shared. Yes, it would have been the perfect match.

But it was clearly not meant to be, Erestor thought, watching Aquiel and Elrohir kissing with growing passion in the garden, not caring who might see them, I only hope it shall not break Lindir's heart.

"It seems Elrohir has finally gathered his wits to show his feelings," the soft voice of his young charge said behind him, and Erestor nearly jumped from surprise – he had not heard Lindir coming.

"You knew about this?" he asked, unbelievingly.

Lindir laughed. "Of course! Elrohir had been pining after the Lady Lalaith for years... like a lovesick puppy. I have put a lot of effort into bringing them together. It was not easy!"

"You have?" Erestor arched an eyebrow. "I thought you were... interested in winning the Lady Aquiel's heart yourself. And if I remember rightly, you nearly let yourself be seduced by Elrohir once."

"That was long ago," Lindir answered with a shrug and a smile, "and had mostly to do with too much feywine. I was but a child."

"You still are a child, little one – at least by law," Erestor reminded him gently.

Lindir gave him one of those shy smiles that always made him blush, without a reason.

"I know, Master Erestor. And I love the Lady Lalaith not. I mean, I do love her as a friend or an older sister, but naught else. She is family, after all. But Elrohir – now _he_ loves her very much."

"The feeling seems mutual," Erestor remarked, looking after the two love-birds who finally left the garden, heading Aquiel's chambers with a dreamy look on their faces. Lindir nodded.

"I have known of her feelings for quite some time," he said, "for she found it easier to speak to me about it than to the Lady Arwen. And I have known of Elrohir's love even longer. Yet they were both too proud to make the first move. I am glad that Elrohir finally came to his sense, instead of wasting another hundred years or so."

"Our Lord will not be happy," Erestor murmured. "He was hard-pressed to accept Lady Arwen's choice already, and now Elrohir..."

"Why?" Lindir asked. "Lady Lalaith is naught like her uncle: she is friendly and wise and gentle – yet she still has her rank, matching that of Elrohir's. Why does our Lord dislike Gildor Inglorion so much anyway?"

"That," said Erestor slowly; "is something I would like to know myself. Lord Gildor is not the most pleasant person at times, but such a thing has never made our Lord dislike someone before. Not in this extent. I wish I knew what is behind all this. It would make me easier to handle things. More so now that Gildor's people visit the valley regularly."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Two days later, with the festivities of the Spring Festival in full roll, Erestor was still pondering over this question – this time with Glorfindel. They were putting down targets for the archery contest that was due on the same afternoon, and already many fine archers had announced their wish to participate.

"Did you see our Lord's face when Elrohir came in the Dining Hall the day before yestereve?" Erestor asked. "I cannot understand why he reacted as he did. He became pale like Death itself, and there was a cold fury in his eyes I have only seen during battle before."

"'Twas the way Elrohir wore his hair," Glorfindel told him matter-of-factly, surveying the shooting field with narrowed eyes. It was clearly arranged for two different kinds of archers. The closer targets could be seen rather well, as they were the more common ones, manageable even for mortal competitions. The farthest targets, however – thin stakes made of willow rods – were barely visible, even for his own keen sight, in spite of the brightly-coloured ribbons that marked them – perfect for the best Elven archers.

"The 'King's Braid'?" Erestor asked in surprise. "Why? Does Gildor not wear his hair in the same fashion every time and again?"

"He does," Glorfindel nodded, "and that makes our Lord not very happy, either."

"Why?" Erestor truly was at loss. "I have no great love for Gildor myself, but he does have the right... he is the last true descendant of Finwë, after all."

"Nay, he is not," Glorfindel corrected him in the same patient manner he used when Erestor was but a young elfling, given into his care for tutoring. "Lindir is the last one, as you very well know, whether he accepts this or not. Yet our Lord dislikes the 'King's Braids' for a more... personal reason."

"Which is...?"

Glorfindel sighed. "You are much too young to be aware of certain things. The 'King's Braid' got its name for this was how the last High King of the Noldor, Ereinion Gil-galad, wore his hair in the height of his power. It has become a symbol of High Kingship as well as of the very area of his reign."

"Nay, you must be wrong," Erestor frowned. "I have seen the High King when I was very young – he always wore his hair unbraided."

"You only saw him at wartime," Glorfindel said; "as a warrior-King, mustering his armies – or as a fierce fighter in battle. But you have never been to his high court in Lindon... never seen the glamour of his House... never seen him as he was at peacetime: noble and venerable and wise and very fair(11). He was a great King, cursed to live in those lesser times – beloved and admired by his people, and the young princes in his court were competing with each other for his favour."

Erestor stopped walking and looked at Glorfindel with widening eyes. The pieces of a long-pondered riddle began to come together in his mind. "Gildor...?"

"Not in that way," Glorfindel shook his head. "But he considered himself as second in line for High Kingship, and disliked it greatly that Gil-galad favoured Elrond above anyone else. He accused our Lord to have gained his position at the court through... personal services, to say it mildly."

"How could he dare!" Erestor cried in dismay. "The High King would never have favoured an unworthy prince, just because... because..."

"Just because he was his lover?" Glorfindel finished for him. "'Tis true, and in his sober moments Gildor knew it, too. Yet he felt himself in disadvantage, and unjustly so – and, remember, he was rather young at that time. He lashed out at everyone he could."

"Our Lord was not happy about this, I deem," Erestor remarked dryly.

"Nay," Glorfindel agreed. "I cannot be certain, of course, but I think the endless animosity between him and Gildor was what made Elrond leave the court in Lindon and found Imladris. At the end, this decision saved the lives of many of our kin – but I think he still has not forgiven Gildor for making him leave."

"And yet," said Erestor thoughtfully, "without Gildor's jealousy we might not be alive now; and our Lord might not have his family safe and sound... he might not have a family at all, had he remained with the High King. And that truly would be a waste."

"The paths of the Valar can be twisted at times," Glorfindel admitted, "and the thoughts of Ilúvatar remain veiled for everyone but Manwë himself. 'Tis hard to foresay what certain deeds would result in the future."

"The strangest thing is that Gildor seems to have found his right place in a changed world," said Erestor. "He is the Lord of the South Haven after all, even if he does not live there permanently; and he has his people bound to him, even if the ones who follow him on his travels are few in number."

"'Tis the way of the Wise: to adapt to the changes of the world," Glorfindel nodded, "and the sad irony is, that Gildor Inglorion does possess all the qualities a High King would need to reign – yet he was born too late to actually exercise those vital powers. 'Tis a bitter loss for our kin – for he would have made a great King, given the chance."

"More so than our Lord?" Erestor asked, somewhat doubtfully.

"In certain ways," Glorfindel said. "Elrond is one of the Wise: a Master of the lore like few else have ever been – and a great warrior if the need arises. But in the heart of his hearts he is a scholar and a healer first. He would make an excellent First Counsellor for a warrior-King – as we could see while he served Gil-galad – but Gildor would make a better King. To be a great King, one needs to be ruthless at times, not wise only – Gildor has more of that in him than our Lord."

"And I am certainly the witness of that," Erestor murmured. Glorfindel nodded again.

"He has much of the young Finwë in his demeanour, regardless the ages that separate them – and the Vanyar and Telerin blood that had been mixed into the family. But it matters little now, that he has become the Lord of a mixed folk. He leads them well, and they would follow them to the Black Fields of Mordor, would he ask them."

"Do you believe that he would approve the love between Elrohir and the Lady Aquiel?" Erestor asked.

Glorfindel thought about it for a moment.

"'Tis hard to tell," he finally said with a shrug. "First we have to see if the whole affair lasts longer than a few seasons. They are still very young, both of them; it would be a mistake to bond themselves thus early(12)."

Erestor agreed with that whole-heartedly, and after a last, thorough examination of the shooting field they returned to the Great House to finish their preparations for the evening. Despite all the help they had received, there still was much work to do.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The silver bells chimed, sounding dinner and all arrived, sitting about the table of the Dining Hall, according to rank. Elrond sat in his chair at the head of the table, as it suited the Lord of the Valley, with Gildor as the highest-ranking guest on his right and Glorfindel on his left. In the middle of the table, against the woven clothes upon the wall, there was a chair under a canopy, and there sat the Lady Celebrían, seeming as queenly as ever, with her children on one side and the Lady Aquiel on the other.

Men sat on the left side of the long table, the Elendur son of Valandur(13), heir to the High King of Arnor with his escort and the messengers of the far-off city of Men near Greenwood the Great, a city called Dale, for it had been custom ever since the founding of the kingdoms of the Men of Númenor that their representatives came to the great festivals in Imladris, and after a while Elrond extended his invitation to other allies as well.

Elves sat in groups on the right side, talking together, in a colourful mix of different Elven realms: the dark-haired dwellers of Imladris, Haldir of Lórien with his tightly braided, ash-blond mane, so very unusual among the Silvan folk, some silver-tressed Falathrim from Círdan's people and the members of Gildor's Company, with all their various looks, the Silvan Elves standing out of them with their auburn locks that had got considerably lighter in colour with the coming of spring.

Lindir stood behind Elrond's chair, waiting upon his Lord. He glanced toward Erestor from time to time, feeling his mentor's eyes on him and not wanting to disappoint him with any mistakes. He sighed softly: he had no interest whatsoever in that archery contest, since he despised weapons of any sort, but he was looking forward to the long song-sharing and tale-telling night that was due to follow in the Hall of Fire.

After dinner, Elves and Men rose, walking out behind the house to the shooting range. Thanks to Erestor and Glorfindel's labours in the morning, all targets were duly set. The targets for the first round, lozenge-shaped wooden shields with a tiny golden leaf in their middle, were fastened on slender poles, while the brightly beribboned little stakes for the second round were driven in farther away on the great expanse of green lawn that stretched out before them. 

The latter targets in particular were meant to be difficult – the very challenge every good Elven archer loved. There were appreciative murmurs among the crowd, and many whispered compliments to the seneschal for making the shooting ground this challenging.

As had been the custom for quite some time, in the first round of the archery contest both Elven and mortal archers participated. The winner was given a prize in this one, regardless of whether he would take part the second round or not. Mortal archers usually did not so, as their eyesight was not keen enough to match that of the Elves.

Haldir of Lórien looked around, noting great archers gathering for the beginning of the contest. It promised to be a hard one this year. There were the sons of Elrond, for one thing. Though fairly young, they were known to handle their bows – made in Lórien, by the hands of the greatest Elven weapon-makers, by the way – exceptionally well. Which was small wonder, considering that he had taught them himself in the Golden Wood, many years ago.

Then there were some true bow-masters in Gildor's Company, too: Durithel and Denilos, both of Nandorin descent, and what's more, rumour said that Durithel was related to Beleg Cúthalion(14), the greatest archer that ever walked the Earth – and almost as skilled. Orontor, their third companion originated from Lórien (Haldir had known his father who fought alongside him in the Battle upon Dagorlad), so he had to be good as well. The fourth one, Thorndor, was a young Noldo whose abilities he could not guess.

The other participants were mostly young Elves from Imladris or Men from Arnor and Dale, Prince Elendur, an established warrior, being the best of them. Haldir had heard of the Dúnadan prince and of his extraordinary skills and was expecting a good contest. Of course, he and the other Master Archers did not participate in the first round – it would not be appropriate, as the others would have no chance against them. But he was content to watch the younger ones try their skills. Elladan and Elrohir did participate, however, with the argument that they wanted to increase the Mannish presence in this round. Which was clearly a jest, not even a particularly good one, but the Men found it funny.

Lindir, who was asked to help out by organizing the contest, now blew a small horn, and the contending archers of the first round took their station in turn at the marked line. The distance between that marked line and the target was 250 yards, which happened to be the range of a good Elven bow of the sort that was used in Greenwood and the Mannish realms around it. The order of precedence had been previously determined by lot, and now the archers could step up to the mark and shoot each three shafts in succession. Thalion, the Captain of Elrond's House Guard oversaw the first round, while Lindir took notes about the success of each archer.

One by one, the archers stepped forward and delivered their arrows with steady hand and faces taut with concentration. Of twenty-four arrows shot in succession, ten hit the target, yet the others ranged so near it that – considering the distance of the mark – even those could be accounted great archery. Of the ten shafts that were embedded in the target, three touching the golden leaf were shot by Prince Elendur, two by Elladan and another two by Elrohir. Accordingly, the Prince of Arnor was pronounced victorious.

The target was now removed, and a fresh one of the same size placed in its stead. Prince Elendur, who, as the winner of the first trial of skills, had the right to shoot first, took his aim with great deliberation. He measured the distance for quite some time, while holding his bended bow – actually a Númenórean-style longbow the likes of which were still used in Arnor – in his hand, with the arrow placed on the string. Númenórean bows had a longer range than those the Elves used, almost 300 yards, but they were allowed in contests where Elves participated, as an advantage that evened out the better Elven eyesight.

At length, the Prince made a step forward, and raising the bow at the full stretch of his left arm, 'til the grasping-place was nigh level with his face, he drew the bowstring with his leather-gloved hand to his ear. The arrow whistled through the air and hit the golden leaf in the middle of the target, but not exactly in the centre. Elendur sighed and made a sour face.

"You have not allowed for the wind, my Prince," said Elladan with a smile; he and his twin had been friends with the Prince of Arnor ever since Elendur was old enough to bend a bow, "or that had been a better shot."

With that, Elrond's eldest stepped up to the marked line and shot his arrow seemingly carelessly, as if he had not even looked at the target. He was still speaking when the shaft left the bowstring, yet it hit the target at the rim of the golden leaf.

"And you, brother, should take a better aim," grinned Elrohir, taking his brother's place and shooting in the same careless manner. His arrow embedded itself in the target about an inch from the golden leaf.

"Look who is talking," shot back Elladan, a little irritated.

"Enough of this – from both of you," intervened Glorfindel. "As the hits are very close to the target, you shall have another round of shots – that will decide the winner."

After all the other participants had completed their first round of shots (none of them could outdo the first three though), Prince Elendur resumed his place. This time, he did not neglect the caution he had just received from Elladan and made the necessary allowance for the very light breeze that had recently arisen. Thus he shot so successfully that his arrow hit the very centre of the golden leaf.

"You cannot mend that shot, brother," said Elladan casually, giving the mortal Prince an encouraging grin.

"True enough; I shall notch his shaft for him, however, should you switch places with me," replied his twin with a grin of his own.

Elladan stepped aside with an exaggerated bow, and Elrohir let fly his arrow with a little more precaution than before. It lighted right upon that of Prince Elendur, which it split to shivers. The people cheered, and Elrohir pumped a triumphant fist into the air. Elladan followed his lead and he, too, hit Elrohir's arrow unerringly. However, this particular round went to Prince Elendur, as his shaft hit the target nearest the centre in the first round and none the other archers could come near to their hits.

With that, the first part of the competition was over. Prince Elendur was given his prize – a pair of beautifully-crafted daggers – which he fastened proudly on his weapons belt, and the archers moved on to the second, much harder part. Only Elves could hope to hit these difficult targets, and even among Elves only those who were considered Master Archers. Still, a Ranger from Cardolan, who came as part of Prince Elendur's escort, asked to be allowed to try his skills against them, and was granted his wish.

Haldir looked down the shooting field, noting the farthest stave bearing a red ribbon. He measured the distance with experienced eyes and checked the wind, determining that with skill and silence he would make every shot a sure hit. He caught the encouraging smile of Fíriel and nodded slightly. Nay, he could not fail before the eyes of the woman who meant more to him than anyone, save his late wife. It was by the Lady's grace alone that they met again, and though one day they would have to depart Middle-earth as well as each other, their remaining days were blessed by their love.

Erestor, as was his duty, gave the sign to begin the contest, and the first archer stepped up to the line and raised his bow. A cheer rose up as the arrow landed near to the stave that marked the farthest point. The shooter, the same Ranger from Cardolan, smiled proudly and bowed, gathering the compliments of the crowd. It was a considerable achievement among such fine archers – all of them Elves.

Haldir watched, nodding his approval to the many fine shots and considering his own. Save Durithel alone, he was probably the best archer there, at least among the tested ones and he had little worry about his own shooting. But today he had someone aside from his pride to shoot for. Fíriel had seen him before many times, and yet he looked forward to showing his skill for his lover once more.

Elrond sat in his chair, Celebrían, Gildor and Glorfindel sitting with him, and he applauded at the best shots along with the others, yet his eyes strayed to Elladan again and again as he watched his tall, strong and beautiful son awaiting his turn. He sighed, the pleasure of the moment filling him with joy, and when Celebrían squeezed his hand in joyful anticipation, he nearly jerked. He glanced at his wife and exchanged with her a smile full of parental pride. Both their sons were fine archers, but Elladan by far the better of them.

The older twin stepped up, putting an arrow on his bow-string and the crowd grew silent, watching as he focussed his eye on the farthest stave beyond. After a moment he let go, and the arrow flew away with incredible speed, hitting its mark unerringly. Everyone gasped and Lindir ran out, checking the shot against the red-ribboned stave. It was wedged against the stave, rammed into the ground with great force, and an astonished murmur ran through the crowd when he came back and said so.

Elladan smiled contentedly and turned, glancing at Elrond, who sat clapping, leaning towards Celebrían, whispering something in her ear. Then he turned away, only to meet the jealousy-stricken face of his brother. It surprised and even a little hurt him – 'til he saw the anticipation on the Lady Aquiel's face, and all of a sudden he wished he had failed his shot. While it was true that Elrohir could not match his own skills with the bow, he himself did not need one more victory... not when it made his brother feel ashamed in the eyes of his lady.

Haldir smiled, too, as he waited, taking his shots, each as close to the arrows of his competitors as possible. Finally, the all-deciding fourth round came, and he bent his bow for the last time. This time, though, he looked with attention to his weapon and even asked for a moment to change the string, which he found was no longer truly round, having been a little frayed by all those past shots. He then took his aim with great deliberation, and the crowd awaited his shot in breathless silence. Haldir smiled; he recalled the target before his inner eye one last time, then he released the arrow. It split the stake cleanly apart.

As would be expected, he was declared the best shot of the contest, to the great delight of Fíriel. No-one aside from him could hit the farthest stake directly. He saw, however,  what the others might not have detected – that Elladan held back by his other shots, ever so slightly, that it would not be obvious that he let his brother overtake him by a hair's breadth. Elrohir was too overjoyed to notice this, and Aquiel beamed with pride.

As Haldir finished collecting his arrows and turned to walk back from the shooting field, he noted that a small crowd of Elves and Men were gathered around the place of honour, listening intently to something Gildor was saying. The look on Elrond's face was hard to read, but Haldir could tell that the Lord of the Valley was not pleased. Hurrying, he caught the end of Gildor's suggestion.

"What say you, Lord Elrond," the Lord of the Wandering Company said with mock respect, "should we show these young pups how the princes of Finw's House were taught to handle their weapons in the times long gone?"

Haldir watched with a raised eyebrow as everyone waited for Elrond's response. Neither himself, nor half of the archers from Gildor's own people could truly be called "pups"; actually, both he and Durithel were considerably older than Gildor himself, and even Denilos was at least of Gildor's age. But it was obvious that Gildor wanted to tease his host a little – and mayhap even to prove his skills in the eyes of the Lady Arwen.

Finally, after a moment of tension, Elrond answered in a flat voice, "If you feel the need to participate, Lord Gildor, I wish not to hinder you. 'Tis your own choice. I for my part need to prove nothing."

Feeling somewhat disappointed that Elrond did not accept his challenge, Gildor rose and unfastened his robe. Handing it to young Edrahil who was standing behind him, serving as his aide during the Festival, he motioned to Durithel. The archer walked over and stood, looking at him in askance.

"May I use your bow, Durithel?" Gildor asked, holding out his hand.

"Most certainly, my Lord," Durithel handed over the magnificent weapon, made following the traditions of the archers of Doriath, and Gildor took it, testing its strength against his own. It was longer than the average Elven bows, longer even than the ones made in Lórien, which were considered the best ones in these days. With a nod of approval, he pulled three arrows from the quiver on Durithel's back, walking towards the shooting line and placing two of them on the ground.

Arwen watched him, her heart in her throat. Gildor was a renowned warrior – Erestor could tell stories about his last battle for hours – but Arwen had not seen him shoot in all the seasons he had spent in Imladris. She had no idea how skilled he was with a bow at all, having been a sword-fighter mostly. She knew Gildor took this risk to gain her respect – and that he could lose that of his people in exchange, should he fail.

It was eerily silent as Gildor took aim, Durithel standing beside him, the other two arrows in his hand. The archer watched with bated breath as his Lord carefully measured his shot, driven by the need to prove himself to the Lady of his heart.

Finally, Gildor let go of his string, and the arrow flew in a rather strange arc skywards. Everyone gasped, thinking that he had made a mistake by aiming high instead of straight and that the shot would lose its strength much too soon. But Gildor clearly knew what he was doing. The arc placed the arrow so close to the red-ribboned stave that it almost touched Elladan's first arrow.

Durithel, who had taught him this trick in the first place, laughed out loud, bowing in respect to his Lord, who laughed as well, relieved that in spite of the recent lack of practice, his well-trained muscles still remembered the necessary moves. He shot two more arrows, each one landing as perfectly as the other and when he finished, he handed the bow back to Durithel.

"Thank you, my friend – for the loan as well as for the archery lessons."

"You are most welcome, my Lord," the Nandor Elf grinned. "'Tis good to see that I was not wasting my time with you in your reckless youth."

All laughed while Gildor donned his robe again and followed his host inside, all the while taking the congratulations of the other archers. Into the Hall of Fire they went, and Lindir and the other young Elves became busy pouring wine and listening to the tales of older times as the elder among them began to recite them.

Merry laughter and sweet talking, long-winded singing and roundelays out in the courtyard carried them on into the night, and when the guests finally began to leave, everyone was of amiably high spirits. Erestor had overseen the work of the younger Elves putting the rooms and terraces in good order, and by the time he was ready to retire, he was pleasantly tired. Preparing himself for a well-deserved, restful night, he could hear Lindir summing _Íre rávanna_(15), the oldest spring song known to Elves, on his nearby balcony.

_Hríve taltie mi orontilmar,_

_losselóti firir úrenen._

_Menel mire mi andúne-rilmar,_

_Anar taure ata cuit' ar nén._

_Tule rato alcarinqua laire,_

_helwa-ahyala ve falmali_

_culde nandar vaita áre-faire_

_ar nu aldar liltar ehteli._

_Aiya merye súri! Yé, tulinye,_

_et rávanna, aiwenórie,_

_lalmi, versilinnar, i melinye,_

_oron, nén, nai cenuvanye te. _

_Ata cenuvanyet ve nésesse,_

_hilya nenna nelle liltale,_

_hlare lindo lindale tauresse,_

_ailinello alqua-tyalie. _

**End notes:**

(1) The last day of the seasonal year.

(2) The spring season.

(3) The first day of the seasonal year.

(4) The winter season.

(5) Which means, in our count, that they actually spent at least four months in Imladris, the winter season lasting 72 and the stirring season (the last one of the year) another 54 days. So, they pretty much became part of the life of Rivendell.

(6) No, he had not, actually. It's only my twisting unimportant canon facts a little to give Gildor more credit. There is no proof that the south haven of the Silvan Elves that still was said to exist in some way near Dol Amroth during the Ring War would be built upon the ruins of Edhellond.

(7) About the unique bond of an Elven leader and his/her folk, see: „Who is like the Wise Elf" by Michael Martinez, where he postulates that Gildor, indeed, might have been considered as one of the Wise.

(8) Nickname.

(9) Laughter.

(10) Lúthien could make her hair grow in one night so long that she could weave a cloak of it that made her invisible.

(11) We are not speaking here of Gil-galad as he appeared in the movie.g The same is true for my portrayal of Elrond. Or his sons. Or even Arwen. It is a matter of taste, after all.

(12) I know that in „Morgoth's Ring" is written that Elves would mate and marry at the age of 50 – but the simple truth is, I find it rather unbelievable. With a life as long as Elves have, with 50 they still are little more than babies. And, as I said, I go with canon facts as they stay in the trilogy, The Silmarillion and The Unfinished Tales – If I would try to take any remark in any private letter of Tolkien under consideration, I would stop writing altogether. Some of you probably think that would be the best solution – In that case, nobody forces you to read my work.

(13) Valandur (462-652, 3rd Age) was the 8th High King of Arnor. He was slain in unrecorded circumstances. His son, Elendur, was 87 years old during this particular archery contest – in Dúnadan terms a young man in his pride.

(14) Legendary archer of Doriath in the First Age – a friend of Túrin and slain accidentally by him. Cúthalion means "Longbow".

(15) ) "Desire to the Wilderness" – this is actually the Quenya translation of the Swedish spring-song "Längtan till landet", translated by Mins Björkman, found on the Mellonath Daeron linguistic website. Needless to say that it doesn't belong to me.

Copyright: Soledad Cartwright, 2002-06-16


	10. Interlude2: Family Discussions

INNOCENCE

**by Soledad Cartwright**

Disclaimer:

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Fíriel still belongs to Deborah. Only the Lady Aquiel belongs to me – and the enigmatic Wandering Company of Gildor.

Rating: PG, for this chapter.

Please read Warnings before the Prologue.

**Author's Notes:**

Time: year 640, 3rd Age

Summary: A long-dealyed discussion finally takes place.

Originally, I planned another 60-year-jump here, sending my heroes straight to Lothlórien. But then I remembered that there was still the small matter of Galadriel's mysterious message – the one Celebrían got in Chapter 5 (Roos) – and that she so obviously disliked. In all that excitement about Arwen's First Choice and the blossoming love between Elrohir and the Lady Aquiel (not to mention the second-worst writer's block of my life) I neglected to come back to the Lothlórien problem… which fact created an almost 40-year-gap of storytelling while it still remained unsolved.

Also, in Chapter 6 (Stirring of Hearts – Lalaith) Haldir came from Lothlórien with another message, this one from Amroth, the new, self-proclaimed King of the Golden Wood. Now, I didn't want to leave both messages unopened (for the reader, at least) and unanswered for another half a century.

I needed to do something for continuity's sake – hence this Interlude, mostly a conversation between Elrond and Celebrían (and later Arwen), about the Lórien problem and about Arwen's ongoing relationship with Gildor Inglorion – which Elrond still very much dislikes.

So, this would be a short and rather ''chatty'' little part, about Elven politics and arranged marriages – you might find it boring. But it _is_ necessary for me to go on with the story as a whole, so I humbly ask your forgiveness. g

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

''My golden lover of sweetest music,  
my golden lover with helmet of flame,  
you are the one who nurtures me,  
you are the one who quenches my pain. 

Love that sweetens in autumn  
settles by winter like wine;  
like new wine in a crystal cup  
fills my heart its strong radiance. 

You kindle the flame of my soul,  
you burn my worries in fire.  
Like filth is my food without you,  
like rusty water tastes my wine.''

László Nagy

(Hungarian poet – loosely translated by me. Sorry. I know I can't do poetry, but this poem just begged to stand here at the beginning, and none of my usual benefactors understands Hungarian, so I had to do it myself.)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

INTERLUDE: FAMILY DISCUSSIONS

[The 23rd day of _tuilë_(1), in the year 640 of the Third Age]

Spring was fully a-blossom in the enchanted valley of Imladris, and Elven hearts were singing with joy after the long, cold winter season and the slowly awakening days of stirring. The dwellers of the valley – permanent ones and long-time guests alike – were out on the terraced fields and in the greenhouses, eager to tend to the awakened Earth in order to secure a good harvest later of for the rejuvenated seasonal year.

The most important duties, as usual fell to the Lady Arwen. As the leader of the _Yavannildi_(2), she had to overlook the sowing of _suncorn_(3), that needed not only very special care but also carefully measured enchantment to make the corn grow so far in the North. A most delicate work indeed – but not overly demanding for Arwen, who descended from Lúthien Tinúviel, the greatest of all Elven enchantresses _and_ from the Lord of Trees who dwelt in the Golden Wood.

This year the valley was given a rare gift that very few Elves had seen in these lesser days: a new life, born into their midst. Young Tinwiel gave birth to a little daughter at the expected time, and she named her Irilde(4), to honour the Lord of the Valley and his ancestors. Elrond was moved and offered Tinwiel to remain in the valley for a few years, until the child grew strong enough to endure a longer journey, and Tinwiel and her husband Radhros thankfully accepted the generous offer.

The rest of the Wandering Company moved shortly after the birth – this time they were heading towards the South Haven, for Gildor felt the need to see his city and meet the majority of his people again, having been absent for several years. He also wanted to strengthen the small settlement's defenses, for the Corsairs of Umbar had become reckless in the recent years(5) and he did not want to leave his small realm vulnerable.

So he took his leave from Elrond's family (Arwen of them above all), said his farewells to the Lady Aquiel and to Lindir, whom he still considered the long-lost nephew the young elf actually was, and once again he was on the never-ending road of slow but constant travels.

'''Tis a relief that he finally is gone'', Elrond murmured. ''I began to feel like a prisoner in my own home.''

''You should not let him corner you so easily'', Celebrían said with a gentle smile. ''You are old enough to be his father – and yet in your anger you offer him the most perfect target.''

Elrond sighed. ''I know. And I know, too, that I should learn to ignore him. Yet like a poisonous thorn in my flesh he has become, ever since the years of our youth in Lindon – and I cannot befriend the thought that even our proud, head-strong daughter yielded to him.''

''Then do not'', Celebrían laughed, ''for I am very certain that he is more of a conquest for our daughter than one she would truly love. She is testing her powers and marking their limits – that is one of the reasons she has chosen him in the first place.''

''How can you be so certain?'', Elrond asked, a little bewildered. It did him little good to be one of the Wise, it seemed, when he was unable to read the heart of his own daughter – a skill that his wife mastered without the littlest of effort.

''She has much of you in her'', Celebrían answered with a small sigh, wondering, how her oh so wise husband could not see the small things that lay so open before him; ''and also much of me and my father. But there is a part of her – and in her alone of all our children – that she inherited from Mother. A… hardness that no-one else in our family possesses – not even you, despite all the battles you have fought and all the pain and blood that you have seen.''

''What does it mean for her future life?'', Elrond asked, for there clearly was something that wisdom and lore could not explain – only the insight of a mother into the heart of her child who had shared her body and soul for a full circle of seasons.

''Our daughter was born to become a Queen'', Celebrían said with a smile that had as much pain in it as it had pride; ''one way or another. Gildor Inglorion cannot give her _that_, for though he might have the birthright to become a King, he has no kingdom to rule. Therefore this affair that makes you worry so much shall end on the very day Arwen finally meets the true King of her heart.''

''You say Arwen is triffling with his heart?'', Elrond asked a little uncomfortable, for regardless of what he might have thought of Gildor, such a thing was considered less than honourable among Elves.

Celebrían shook her head.

''Nay; that she would never do. Also, though Gildor seems to be in deep love, he is no fool. He very much knows what he can hope from Arwen and what he cannot. I believe he chose to take what was offered, as long as it lasts. 'Twas still better than loneliness.''

''When you think 'tis only a matter of time for Arwen to leave him'', Elrond said slowly, gravely, ''then mayhap we should speak to our daughter about those messages that came in from the Golden Wood – both of them.''

''We should'', Celebrían agreed, ''for we have delayed this conversation much too long already, and the senders of the messages might become impatient, soon.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After watching the Moon rise and greeting it with the appropriate songs, Arwen and Aquiel parted company with the other young Elves of Elrond's household and returned to the Great House.

''Any plans for the evening?'', Arwen asked.

Aquiel gave her a mischievous smile, grey eyes sparkling. ''I promised Elrohir to…''

''…take harp lessons tonight'', Arwen finished for her. They laughed, this being the usual excuse for the two to spend some time together, undisturbed. Playing the harp was rarely part of their activities, however.

''That is true'', Aquiel nodded with mock seriousness; ''I need practice. What about you?''

''My parents intend to have an important talk with me'', Arwen said with a sigh and a wry face. Aquiel gave her a sympathetic nod.

''Ai! The 'Gildor-is-not-the-right-one-for-you'-speech again?''

''I know not'', Arwen admitted. ''Were it Father alone, I would guess so. But Mother has never been aught but supportive.''

''Then, I think, you cannot do aught else but go there and find out what 'tis all about'', Aquiel commented drily.

Arwen laughed and kissed her on the cheek ere drifting off towards her parent's bedchamber. The Lord and the Lady preferred to discuss important family matters in private rather than in Elrond's study where all members of the household had free access.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When Arwen entered the large room through the adjoining balcony, both her parents were sitting at the hearth where a fire still burnt low, for the spring evenings were quite chilly in the valley. Elrond seemed concerned, and from her mother she received troubled feelings – as if Celebrían had disliked the upcoming discussion in advance.

''Sit with us, Arwen'', her father said. ''The Lady Celebrían and I have chosen to speak with you about a matter of some importance.''

Arwen frowned at that. Never had her father spoken so formally to her, regardless of the importance of the matter he wanted to discuss. This sounded not good at all. Mayhap Aquel had been right, and her parents were preparing to give him the 'Gildor-is-not-the-right-one-for-you'-speech again.

She sat obediently, determined to defend her choice if necessary, and looked at her father in askance.

''I understand that you wish to visit Lothlórien for some time'', Elrond began. Arwen nodded.

''That I do, Father. I have not completed my studies yet, and Grandmother has already sent me messages to remaind me of this.''

''Has she?'', Elrond raised an eyebrow. ''We have not known of this, your mother and I. And you found it not important enough to speak of it?''

''I assumed that she had sent the same messages to you already'', Arwen shrugged. ''Yet she is right. I have been tarrying too long. I should have finished my studies before my Choosing Ceremony.''

''And yet you chose to wait'', said Celebrían quietly; ''why would you do so? I very much doubt that it was for Gildor, even though he avoids Lothlórien when he can.''

''He does?'', Arwen asked in surprise. ''I know he has little love for Grandmother because of the way she handled Celebrimbor a long time ago, but many of his people belong to the Silvan folk. They certainly would like to visit the _mallonrs_ of the Golden Woood?''

''For that'', Celebrían replied, ''one has not to enter Caras Galadhon. But seeing _you_ in Lothlórien would require it.''

''True'', Arwen admitted. ''And yet, I have not tarried for Gildor's sake.''

''Why _did_ you tarry then?'', Celebrían asked.

''I wanted to become a healer first'', Arwen said. ''A good one. And _that_ I could but achieve while watching Father. Having inherited the skills is a great gift of the Valar; yet 'tis not enough. I wanted to learn the lore as well. But now that I have learnt all that can be learned, I want to finish other things that I had begun earlier. And in these days Grandmother is the only one left who had learnt the skills of enchantment from Melian and Lúthien.''

''She is the greatest of all who still can wield Elven magic'', Elrond agreed; ''here is no else who could teach you better.''

''And yet I can become even stronger, despite of my later birth'', Arwen said with calm certainty. ''For I am of the blood of Melian the Maia, while she is not.''

''True; still, I would advice you not to remind her of that'', said Celebrían drily. ''She might not react to such reminder in kind.''

''I know that, Mother'', Arwen laughed. ''I know _her_ all too well, I fear. Now, do tell me, the two of you: what is it you wanted to discuss with me?''

''I presume you are aware of the delicate situation in Lothlórien, that had led to tensions, ever since Amroth son of Amdír declared himself the King of the Golden Wood?'', Elrond asked.

''It was his brithright, was it not?'', Arwen arched an elegant eyebrow. ''Though Grandmother might think differently, I deem. Too accustomed she had become to ruling the Galadhrim while Prince Amroth was but a young elfling. 'Tis hard for her to step down.''

''It is'', Elrond nodded. ''But what is worse: the Galadhrim truly are divided. The greater part of them follows King Amroth, while others still want to serve the Lord of Trees. 'Tis not good for our people.''

''Certainly not'', Arwen shrugged, ''but what concern of mine might that be? I belong to Imladris, with you, not to Lothlórien.''

''That might change'', Elrond replied gravely. ''The Lady of the Wood seems to think that a marriage between you and King Amroth would solve the conflict to the mutual benefit of both parties involved.''

''What?!'', Arwen leapt to her feet, with cold fury in her clear eyes. ''Does Grandmother think she could sell me out like a horse for her own purposes? How can you even propose such thing to me, Father?''

''Sit down, Arwen!'', Elrond said in an equally cold voice. ''I do not support this plan of your grandmother; nor does the Lady of Imladris. Yet it seems that Galadriel had succeeded in at least warming King Amroth up to the idea; for he, too, sent a message, asking us to consider such a marriage – and asking _you_ to visit his realm, in order to make your acquintance.''

''The way between Imladris and Lothlórien is equally long in both directions'', Arwen said coldly. ''If he wants to meet me, he shall be welcome in our home any time.''

''True'', Celebrían smiled; ''but would _you_ leave your newly-won kingdom unguarded, knowing that the Lady Galadriel remains behind, trying to extend her influence over your lands, too?''

Arwen sighed. This, of course, was very, very true.

''Nay, I would not. Father, even if you support the proposal not – what is your advice in this? Should I go and meet the new King of Lothlórien while I visit Caras Galadhon?''

''I cannot tell you what to do'', answered Elrond thoughtfully; ''though it would do certainly no harm to accept his invitation. You are not asked to answer him yet, neither aye, nor nay. This would only be a gesture of respect and friendship – honouring the memory of his father who had fought valiantly on my side during the Last Alliance and gave his life for the defeat of Darkness. Naught else.''

Arwen nodded; then she turned to Celebrían and looked at her in askance.

''What say you, Mother? Are you comfortable with the thought of Amroth and I meeting – or myhap getting bound, should we choose thusly, after what had been between you and his father?''

''Nay, I am not'', Celebrían replied without hesitation. ''More than that: it makes me sick that my own mother, who thought King Amdír unworthy of my hand, would make her move to bring Amdír's son together with my daughter, for the benefit of her own power. I wish not the heart of my only daughter to be misused as a tool for my mother's devices.''

Arwen nodded again, slowly. Then she turned back to her father.

''What about you, _ata_? Would such a bond make you as upset as my affair with Gildor Inglorion makes you? Or more?''

''I wish you to bond yourself to the one whom your heart desires'', Elrond answered gently; ''just as your mother and I have done. I would accept any one you choose out of true love – even Gildor. My child, I only want you the same happiness your mother and I share.''

''Then you have no reason to worry'', Arwen laughed; ''for I shall never bond myself to Gildor. He is a great leader of his people, and a wonderfully gentle partner; and he is very much in love with me, just as I am with him. Yet what we share is the passion of flesh only – that and some gentle affection. He is not the one my _fëa_(6) would ever merge with.''

''Why not?'', Elrond asked, though secretly he was very much relieved, for he wished not his old adversary to become part of their family.

''For he had merged his _fëa_ with an other one, long before I was even born'', said Arwen quietly, the pain obvious in her controlled voice. ''I know not – not for sure – who this other one might have been, but I am certain that who ever this person was, part of Gildor had died with them. For they were soul-bound, and therefore I shall never be the one he truly belongs with.''

''Does this disturb you greatly?'', Celebrían asked in gentle compassion.

''It hurts'', Arwen admitted, ''yet I am grateful that he did not hide this from me. I do love him – yet my heart is not yet bound, and given enough time, I shall be able to love someone else. I am certain of that. Mayhap meeting King Amroth would be beneficial for me, after all.''

''Make no promises ere you are certain of your own heart!'', Elrond warned her, not entirely happy about this turn of events. Regardless of what he might think of Gildor, he hated to see his little girl (for Arwen would always remain a little girl for him) hurting.

''Be in peace, _ata_'', Arwen replied with a fond smile. ''I would never bond myself for eternity if I were not sure that I found the right one.''

Elrond smiled back and nodded.

''Then we are both content'', he answered. ''Know this, my child: your mother and I shall always support your choices. Neither of us shall ever force you to choose for any other reason but true love.''

''I know that'', Arwen said; ''and I am grateful. I truly am. And since we all agree in the matters that are of true importance, I am willing to meet King Amroth and listen to what he has to say. As long as the choice is mine.''

''It is'', Elrond said. ''It always has been, and it always will be.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Well, yeah, this ends a little abruptly, but I prefer to break up as long as I still have something to say, instead of adding a few dozen meaningless lines.g

In the next chapter we are all going to Lórien and make the acquintance of King Amroth. Also, everyone's favourite Marchwarden, one Haldir is making an appearance, with his whole family, and we finally meet Celeborn and Galadriel, too.

Since this is mainly Lindir's story, I decided to send the boy out to see a little of the world, as long as the roads still are more or less secure. Of course, Erestor would never let him go alone, reagardless of his mixed feelings towards Galadriel, so we can look forward for some wonderful conflict – or so I hope. If my muse cooperates.

**End notes:**


	11. Chapter 7: Stirring of Hearts Undómiel

**INNOCENCE**

**by Soledad**

Disclaimer:

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us fanfic writers to have some fun. Only Erestor's family belongs to me.

Rating: PG for this chapter.

Please read Warnings before the Prologue.

**Author's Notes:**

Time: (641-700, 3rd Age)

Summary:

Lindir and Erestor accompany Arwen and her escort on a journey to Lothlórien. There they meet some old friends – and make some new ones.

This is going to be a lengthy chapter, I fear. So ere we go on, I'd like to answer some questions I have been asked concerning this particular story.

Re: Radagast: The Istari were sent to Middle-earth with a specific purpose each. Getting involved with Elves or Men too closely would have distracted them from their true mission. In fact, Tolkien writes explicitly that Radagast did get distracted through his love to the birds and beasts. Imagine him having a family as well – he would never get anything done! Melian, the only Maia who ever intermarried with Elves, came on her own account, and in a time when the Valar regularly visited Middle-earth.

Re: Gildor: Don't count on learning the secrets of his past, not in this story. He will get his own tale eventually (''Born to Rule, Born too Late'', unless I come up with a besser title); plus he will return irregularly in my Celebrimbor story (''Sins of the Father'') as well; you'll have to look out and put the pieces together. evil grin

Re: Lindir: He will have his own Choosing Ceremony – in Chapter 9, if everything goes as I've planned out. In this one, both he and Erestor are still a little in the background (politics and other stuff taking over the lead), but from Chapter 8 on the story fully focuses on them again. (Or so I hope. I'm not the one in control here, you know.)

**CHAPTER 7: STIRRING OF HEARTS – UNDÓMIEL**

[The 11th day of _tuilë_, in the year 641 of the Third Age]

Despite the agreement Arwen and her parents had come to, it took her almost another year til she was ready to leave for Lothlórien for a longer time. Preparations for the long journey had to be made, important matters she had begun in Imladris had to be finished, and, above all, she had to teach the Lady Aquiel how to run things in her absence. Certainly, Celebrían could have done everything without her help, but there were certain duties that a daughter (or a substitute daughter) was due to fulfill, and it was high time for Aquiel to begin sharing the life of Elrond's family.

It came somewhat as a shock when Elrohir stepped forth and asked for his parent's blessings to his betrothal with the Lady Aquiel. At first Elrond was a little reluctant to give his leave – not that he would have had any objections against the young princess; in fact, he welcomed the chance to reunite the Houses of Fingolfin and Finarfin after such a long time with the bonds of matrimony – but he thought both of them much too young to bond themselves for eternity.(1)

''I welcome you into our family,'' he said to Aquiel, ''and readily would I give my blessing to your betrothal. Still, I must ask you to give yourselves more than a mere year before becoming sealed for eternity.''

''I agree with you, my Lord,'' Aquiel bowed slightly. ''In fact, I intend to complete my studies ere founding a family, and Elrohir has agreed to wait til I am done.''

''Then why are you in such hurry to get betrothed?'' Elrond asked.

''We both feel that we have found our true soul-mate,'' replied Aquiel, ''and we want to show everyone that we, indeed, belong together – even if we have decided to postpone  our fulfillment for a long time.''

''That I can understand,'' Elrond nodded, ''and I shall not stand in the way of your happiness. I only ask you to be this honest even if you should have a change of heart later.''

''Should that happen, I will be honest with you and your son, my Lord,'' said Aquiel with a smile, ''but I am certain it will not come to that.''

Elrond smiled back at her.

''In that case you have our blessings – mine and those of the Lady of the Valley. We hope the two of you will be as happy as we are.''

And so a simple betrothal ceremony had been held on the first eve of _enderi_(2), under the stars of Varda, and Aquiel and Elrohir now wore the unadorned silver rings that symbolized their upcoming bond, never guessing how long it would take them til they finally became sealed for eternity(3).

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

But all this was over by now, and Arwen left for Lothlórien on the second day of _tuilë_(4), right after the Spring Festival, with a small company of Imladris' House Guards, led by her elder brother, Elladan, for Elrohir remained in the valley with his freshly-betrothed bride.

In his stead Erestor went, carrying important messages from the Lord and Lady of the Valley to both King Amroth and the Lady Galadriel. Celebrían sent separate messages to be given her father alone, for she was still very uncomfortable with her mother's proposal and wanted Celeborn to make sure that Arwen would not be forced to do aught against her will.

And Erestor took Lindir with him, for he wanted his young charge to see more of Middle-earth than just the borders of Imladris. After all, Lindir had never left the valley since he had been brought there by Aiwendil.

Their road had been an easy one thus far. They crossed the Hithaeglir at the High Pass, for Elladan wanted to explore the eastern side of the mountains once again, and rode slowly along the Anduin southwards. Erestor was thankful for the route, for that way he was not forced to see the ruins of Eregion again.  Though he had been there, several times in fact, since the sack of Ost-in-Edhil, the mere sight of his old home caused him violent nightmares for weeks, and that was not a thing he would have welcomed on his first long journey with Lindir.

The young Elf had matured a lot during the recent years, without losing his wide-eyed, child-like innocence; in truth, he was a grown Elf already, in all but his still somewhat backward social skills, and Erestor began to believe that – just as Celebrían had foretold – they would never make that much headway with those. But Elrond insisted that Lindir should (and would) be able to learn what he called appropriate behavior, and part of the reason that he had sent Erestor as his messenger was to send Lindir with him.  Mayhap in the more formal serenity of Galadriel's court Lindir would learn when to speak and when to remain silent, he pointed out.

For his part Erestor had doubts about that, but he enjoyed his errand nevertheless. Tuilë was beautiful this year, the weather perfect for a long, leisurely journey, and he welcomed the chance to leave Imladris for a while and simply enjoy himself, without the burden of his daily responsibilities.

Lindir seemed to enjoy the journey, too. He always loved trees and birds as well as horses, and now he could see new things that intrigued his bright and curious spirit.  Additionally, he was not forced to travel with people he did not know (which was the reason he always refused to accompany Gildor Inglorion on any of his journeys); and he had Erestor with him, his personal safety guarantee, so he was happy and of high spirits all the way.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

They traveled slowly, so the spring season almost reached its end when they finally reached a long lawn of shining grass, adorned with the small golden eyes of elanor that glinted in the sunlight. The lawn ran out into a narrow tongue between bright margins: on the right and west the Silverlode flowed glittering; on the left and east Anduin, the Great River rolled its broad waters, deep and dark. On the further shores the woodland still marched on southwards as far as the eye could see, but all the banks were bleak and bare.

Elladan checked his horse and looked around, relieved.

''We are almost there'', he said. ''If I remember rightly, we must be about ten miles from the main gate of Caras Galadhon.''

Arwen nodded in agreement, and now Erestor finally understood why Elladan had chosen this unusual route. Approaching Lothlórien from the East made them able to go straight to Caras Galadhon, without crossing King Amroth's domain first. This was not the first time that Elladan's keen sense for strategy had shown.

On the bank of the Silverlode, at some distance up from the meeting of the streams, there was a hythe of white stones and white wood. By it were moored many boats and barges. Some were brightly painted, carrying the family crest of King Amroth, shining with silver and gold and green, but most were either white or grey, in the Teleri fashion that was kept both in Edhellond and in the Grey Havens.

As soon as they reached the spot where the two rivers came together, the Elves working on their vessels saw them and came forth to greet them. Most of them were of the Silvan folk, slender and auburn-haired (though their tresses showed highlights of gold at springtime), but one of them, a young male, taller and somewhat broader-built as the others, had the ash blonde hair of Nandorin ancestors. And his features seemed very familiar to Erestor.

''You seem to have forgotten me altogether, my good Erestor'', the blonde Elf laughed, after the proper greeting had been spoken. ''It has been a long time since you visited us last, yet I would hope that you still remembered.''

That playful, teasing tone finally gave him away, and Erestor grinned widely, remembering the one or other mischief of the shared times from their youth.

''Certainly, I do remember, Rúmil,'' he laughed. ''I remember all too well the silly pranks you used to play on me.  Why is it I find you with the boats? I thought you were serving in the border guard.''

''I have,'' Rúmil said, ''but our King wanted me to guard the haven here. Orophin has taken my place in the border guard.  He needs the guidance of our elder brother more than I do.''

''Then tis true?'' Erestor asked in a low voice. ''You have sided with King Amroth, all three of you?''

''Could you expect aught else?'' Rúmil answered just as quietly. ''Haldir used to be a close friend of King Amdír and the weapons master of the Prince. Orophin and I grew up together with Amroth under Haldir's hand – how could we turn our backs on him?  Besides, he is the rightful King of Lothlórien… _we_ are not the ones who became unfaithful.''

He would have told other things from the look of him, but trailed off, for Elladan became impatient and urged his company to continue their way, which Erestor regretted, for he would have liked to talk to Rúmil some more.

''We shall speak again later,'' he promised.  ''I have messages for your King from the Lord Elrond that I must deliver.''

''Then you shall find me and my brothers as well,'' Rúmil answered, smiling, ''for we dwell in the high house of our king, upon Cerin Amroth, in the very heart of his realm. I shall return and tell the King and Haldir that you have arrived.''

''And I shall accompany you,'' Fíriel said, parting company with the rest of Arwen's escort; ''for my business is with your brother and not with the Lady of Caras Galadhon.''

Both Elladan and Rúmil nodded in agreement, for Fíriel had only come with the company of Imladris to spend a greater length of time with Haldir than his fleeting visits in the valley would allow. Therefore he need not to enter Caras Galadhon, which she avoided when she could. Not that she feared Galadriel – there were few things that could frighten her, and the Lady of the Wood was not one of them – it was more that Galadriel disliked her greatly, for she belonged to Elrond's past… a past of which Celebrían had not yet been part of.

Celebrían herself shared not her mother's prejudices against Elrond's consort of old – in truth, she respected Fíriel's honesty and rather liked her somewhat brusque manners, and the two of them had even grown fond of each other, which pleased Celebrían greatly. For Elrond would rarely speak of his past and its sorrows, and through Fíriel the Lady of the Valley learnt more about her husband that she would have ever learnt from Elrond himself.

Now the rest of the company with Arwen and Elladan rode westwards on the lawn, away from the waters, and after some ten miles they came on a high green wall. A grey-cloaked guardian greeted them and let them pass an opening – so narrow that the horses were barely able to get through – and suddenly they came into a deep thicket of mallorn-trees, following a path that went up the hillsides, winding through rolling woodlands and silver shadows, towards the City of Trees.

Finally, they reached a road paved with white stone, that led to a green hill encircled by a green wall of great height; and the hill was thronged with mallorn-trees, taller than Erestor had ever seen; for he never came any further to the Golden Wood than its northern border. He could not even guess the height of these magnificent trees, but they stood up in the twilight like living towers of silver and gold and emerald. In their many tiered branches and amid their ever-moving leaves, now mostly dark green, spotted only here and there with the gold of the previous winter, lights were gleaming, green and gold and silver.

''Here at last.'' Elladan took a deep breath, and on his fair face the joy of homecoming clearly shone; for he was a hunter by nature and loved the great forests and the life in the treetops where he could vanish more easily from prying eyes than in his father's halls.

But the Lady Arwen's face remained guarded and her clear grey eyes were alert, as if preparing herself for a long and hard fight.

They came to a white bridge, crossed it – and all of a sudden they stood before the great gates of the Tree City, set between the ends of the encircling wall and hung with many lamps. Elladan dismounted, knocked and spoke, and the gates swung open soundlessly and shut behind them the same way.

No guards could be seen, but Erestor felt that strange prickling in the nape of his neck that always meant that he was being watched. He turned to Lindir who stood as if rooted upon the pure gold carpet of fallen leaves, his eyes impossibly wide, listening to the far-away sound of singing that fell from above like soft, silver rain upon the leaves.

Yes, this was the place where Lindir would have grown and blossomed like a young tree planted at a mountain spring, and Erestor asked himself why Master Aiwendil never thought of bringing him here. Certainly the Lord Celeborn would have been able to tutor him just as well as Elrond and Glorfindel did, mayhap even welcomed him into his family as a fosterling.

For some reason, the thought caused a dull ache in his chest.

They passed along many paths and climbed many flights of steps, until they saw before them amid a wide lawn a fountain. It sprang high in the air and fell in a wide basin of silver, from which a white stream ran away down the hill. Graceful statues of stone, hewn into the shape of lovely Elven maidens holding shallow plates stood at the end of a white stone stairway, leading to the highest mallorn of all, standing high by.

It must have been nearly 200 feet high, and of great girth. It had no branches lower than three fathoms above its roots. In the upper branches amid the leaves many lights – gold and white and pale green – were shining. At its foot stood three tall Elves. They were clad in grey mail and from their shoulders hung long white cloaks. Erestor saw at once that they were not from the Silvan folk, but they seemed not entirely Noldor either.

Mayhap of mixed blood, he thought, These would be most likely faithful to the Lady and support her against Amroth.

''Welcome to Caras Galadhon,'' their leader said, directing his words towards Arwen and Elladan. ''The Lord and the Lady are awaiting you.''

One of the wardens then blew a short note on a small horn, and slowly unfolding itself, a winding stairway was let down.

''I shall go first,'' Elladan turned to Erestor and Lindir, "and Arwen with me. You may follow us as you wish; the others will wait down here. 'Tis a long climb, but the view is worth of it, once you are above.''

As they passed upwards, Erestor saw many smaller flets to this side or that, some with rooms built on them; but about a hundred feet above the ground they came to a flet that was very wide – like the deck of a great ship. On it was built a house so large that almost it might have been a hall of Men upon the earth.

They entered behind Elrond's children, and saw that they were in a chamber of oval shape, through the midst of which passed the bole of the great tree. It was filled with a soft golden light. Many Elves were seated there. The roof was a pale gold, the walls green and silver.

On two seats at the further end sat side by side the Lord and Lady of Caras Galadhon. They looked tall, even as they sat, clad entirely in white, and their eyes were shining. This was the first time that Erestor had ever seen Celeborn, though he knew that the Tree Lord had led a host to Eregion in order to save them long ago, back in the Second Age. Even if that host had been too late – later in fact than Elrond himself, who had not arrived at Ost-in-Edhil in time either – he was grateful for the ultimately failed attempt to rescue the inhabitants of the city.

As he now looked at the Lord Galathir(5) (for so Celeborn was called of old among his own people), a tall and venerable Elf-Lord he saw, with deep, wise eyes glittering darkly in his ageless face, his long, glistening hair framing his noble features like a silver cape. Those dark eyes saw in the hearts of Elves and Men, but what they saw moved the Lord of Trees to compassion, not to judgment, and Erestor at once understood whom the Lady Celebrían inherited her gentle heart from.

The Lady Galadriel, on the other hand, was no stranger to Erestor. Though a little elfling only at that time long gone when Galadriel had visited Ost-in-Edhil, he still could remember the anger and sorrow in the deep, musical voice of the Lord Celebrimbor after that visit. He had been much too young to understand what Celebrimbor and his own father had been talking about while he had tried to cut one of his very first gems to proper form (which had sadly proved to be his last one), but even now he could remember the sadness upon Celebrimbor's noble face – a sadness and deep humiliation that had not been there before.

Now, many hundred years later, he knew, of course, what their quarrel had been about… and that Galadriel had been right, back then. Yet he also knew that she had accepted Celebrimbor's gift after all, lacking the strength to destroy it – and that a great part of her powers had been drawn from that gift, the maker and giver of which she had humiliated more than any one else in his long life.

As Arwen and Elladan stepped into the oval-shaped chamber, both the Lord and the Lady rose from their seats and embraced them; then the Lord turned to Erestor and Lindir and bade them welcome, but the Lady Galadriel said no word, and looked long into their faces.

''Welcome, Erestor son of Hargil,'' Celeborn greeted him courteously. ''Your name is known to me, though never in all your travels have you sought my house. Still, I am glad that at least some of the people from Ost-in-Edhil survived the horrible destruction, in spite of my own tardiness.''

''You tried your best, my Lord,'' Erestor answered with a bow. ''Tis not your fault that the Enemy struck sooner than expected.  We who escaped still bless your name, along with those of Elrond, Glorfindel and Gildor Inglorion, for at least trying to come to our aid.''

''You are more generous than I deserve,'' Celeborn replied with a regretful sigh; then he turned to Lindir who had been watching him with curious eyes. ''Welcome, Lindir of Rhosgobel.  Long have I waited to meet you who had the privilege to grow up in the house of the eldest and fatherless.  It is my hope that you shall share your rare gift of music with my people.''

''As you wish, my Lord,'' Lindir blushed, but held his glance steadily.

Now the Lord sat down again, and the Lady Galadriel finally turned to them, and she spoke to Erestor first.

''I understand that you have messages for me?'' she asked.

Erestor had to fight hard to hide his mistrust.

''For you, Lady, for the Lord of Trees, and for King Amroth as well,'' he answered politely.

Galadriel arched a long, golden eyebrow, and the light in her deep blue eyes grew cold.

''Surely there is no need to divide the messages you brought for us,'' she said in a tone that brooked no argument. ''The Lord Celeborn and I have no secrets kept from each other.''

''That I doubt not, Lady,'' Erestor replied in an even, emotionless voice; ''yet I have been ordered to give some of the messages to you and some of them to the Lord of Trees; and that is what I shall do. 'Tis up to you to share them with each other. I must follow the instructions I was given.''

Their eyes met, and their wills clashed for a moment, but Galadriel's powers could only bend those to her will who were willing to follow her already, not one who had nurtured ill feelings towards her for half an Age.

''You have little love for me in your heart, do you, son of Hargil?'' she asked in a low, silky-dangerous voice.

Erestor did not back off.

''Nay, Lady,'' he said, ''I have no love for you at all. Nor does any one who had lived in the times before Ost-in-Edhil fell. Our love was for our Lord, Celebrimbor of the finest arts, whom you have to thank  for more than you would ever be willing to admit.''

It became eerily quiet in the great chamber; all the Elves waited with caught breath for Galadriel's wrath to manifest in some horrible form. No-one had ever dared to speak thusly to the Warrior Princess of the Noldor – even less so someone of common birth, someone who descended from the foolish followers of Celebrimbor… the ones that let themselves be deceived by the Dark Lord.

Yet the Lady of Caras Galadhon contained her wrath, though her angry glare promised naught good, and turned to Lindir now, forcing herself to a benevolent tone again.

''Welcome, Ingwil son of Duilin,'' she said. ''It gladdens my heart to se that at least one of the descendants of Orodreth, my beloved brother, survived the destruction of our House.''

She looked the youngling deep in the eyes, and Erestor began to worry, for the powers of Galadriel to easily break through the shields of most people were widely known, and he feared that Lindir might suffer permanent damage. Even Elladan shot his sister a worried glance, for every one liked Lindir, and they wanted not Galadriel to demonstrate her strength on him.

But Lindir only smiled, completely unaffected by the formidable Lady, it seemed, and said:

''I regret to disappoint you, Lady, but though I might have been born the person you spoke of, I am not him any longer. Lindir of Rhosgobel I am called, the foster son of Radagast the Brown; and that is who I shall always remain. Gildor Inglorion, the head of Finrod's House, has respected my choice in this; and I respectfully ask you to do the same.''

For a moment the carefully arranged mask of Galadriel slipped and she looked truly furious and thoroughly frightening in her wrath, for she was not used to rejection.  But then Celeborn's slender hand rested soothingly upon hers, and the Lord of Trees answered in her stead in a friendly manner.

''If Gildor was willing to give you your freedom, young Lindir, than his decision is binding upon all of Finarfin's descendants; for he has the leadership over the House and the right to decide about the fate of the younger generations. No-one here shall ever force you to do aught that you wish not to do. I only offer you – both of you,'' he added, looking at Erestor,'' – the hospitality of Caras Galadhon for the length of your stay in Lothlórien.''

''My sincerest thanks, Lord Celeborn,' Erestor bowed, ''but for my part, I have already accepted the invitation of my old friend, Haldir. As for Lindir – he is, of course, free to choose where he wants to stay.  I am his tutor, not his jailer.''

''I wish to stay with you, Master Erestor,'' Lindir said at once, ere someone could have said aught.

Celeborn nodded.

''As you wish, young one.  Now, Erestor, would you hand over your messages to us ere you hurry to leave our presence?'' he said, but his eyes were twinkling, making it clear, that – unlike his wife – he was not angry with them.

''Certainly, my Lord.''  Erestor accepted the mild rebuke, getting slightly red, and handed Elrond's message tube to Galadriel and Celebrían's to her father.  ''I am familiar with some of the messages, so if you would wish to discuss the situation of the North-kingdom of Men in more detail, I would be glad to do so.''

''We might,'' Celeborn nodded again. ''How long do you intend to remain in Lothlórien?''

''I know not,'' Erestor answered, ''not yet at least.  It depends on Fíriel's decision, for I was ordered to escort her back to Imladris safely. Yet if she chooses to remain here longer than one _loa_(6) only, I might take Lindir down Anduin in a boat and visit Edhellond with him.  Gildor Inglorion repeatedly voiced his wish that we go and stay in his town with him for a while.''

Galadriel raised a skeptic eyebrow.

''Have you not just said that he had given up on the youngling?''

''Nay, Lady,'' Erestor replied,  "I said that he respects Lindir's choice. But he still wishes him to know his own people and the history of his family – and that is a wish Lindir has chosen to respect… mostly for he still has much to learn from the minstrels among Gildor's people.''

''That sounds reasonable,'' Celeborn agreed. ''At the begin of _laer_(7) I intend to send some boats to Edhellond anyway, to trade with Gildor's people. You may join them, if you wish. They are due to return in the next loa only; so you shall have time enough to explore the joys of living near the Sea. Though I might not suffer from the Sea-longing the Nordor so easily fell victim to, I remember fondly the time I spent in Círdan's realm – and I doubt not that you too shall enjoy the nearness of the Sea greatly.''

''You generous offer is most thankfully accepted, my Lord,'' Erestor said.

''Good,'' Celeborn replied with a serene smile. ''Now, I expect you to partake of our welcome feast, held for my grandchildren tonight here in Caras Galadhon, and I wish young Lindir to show his famous talent in song and music, ere you leave us for the Naith, which the young King of the Golden Wood has chosen as his high seat.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

End notes:

(1) Yes, I do know what it says in Laws & Customs about Elven marriages. And no, I don't care. Elves live thousands of years; at the age of 50 they still are little more than babies, no matter what the Great Maker says. So don't start nit-picking on me. I deliberately ignore Laws & Customs here. Sorry.

(2) The Middle Days

(3) It took them very long, indeed. They were not married til after the Ring War – and not without some painful misunderstandings in-between, as you can read in my other stories (for example in ''A Tale of Never-Ending Love'').

(4) The spring season.

(5) Tree-lord. Name Tolkien originally planned to give Celeborn, according to ''The Treason of Isengard''.

(6) The seasonal year of the Elves.

(7) Sindarin name of the summer season.


	12. Chapter 8: Stirring of Hearts Amroth

**INNOCENCE**

**by Soledad**

Disclaimer:

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Fíriel still belongs to Deborah. Only Haldir's parents belong to me.

Rating: PG-13 for implied het content.

That's right, people, I occasionally pay my debts to the straight part of this planet's population as well.

Please read Warnings before the Prologue.

**Author's Notes:**

Time: (641-700, 3rd Age)

Summary:

Lindir and Erestor visit King Amroth in his home. Amroth considers a marriage with Arwen. Fíriel and Haldir make some choices.

Tolkien had several different concepts about Amroth's heritage, one of the him being the son of Celeborn and Galadriel. Another one made him the son of Amdír, King of Lothlórien, who was slain in the Battle upon Dagorlad. The Unfinished Tales simply tells that he was of Sindarin descent.

I opted for the son of Amdír (whom I made a Sindarin Elf) and a so far unnamed Silvan woman, native to Lothlórien. That would explain both his choice to live like a Wood Elf and Nimrodel's reluctance later to bond with him.

Haldir's personal background is completely made up by me. Malgalad was an alternate name for Amdír, used once only – I borrowed it for Haldir's father.

Originally, this was not supposed to become a separate chapter. But certain parts of Chapter 7 came out too long, so I decided to break it in two parts. As in the previous chapter, I follow the descriptions of Lothlórien according to ''The Treason of Isengard'' (HoME 7), this being an earlier time than LOTR, so an earlier concept seemed appropriate.

One more thing: the spiral stairways are taken from the movie – I found the idea of Celeborn or Galadriel climbing rope ladders to reach their home undignified, no matter how much I usually follow the books –, but I thought that fixed stairways may prove dangerous for the tree-houses; hence the idea of the moveable ones. Please, ask me not how they worked – I honestly have no idea!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

_''Passion. It lies in all of us. Sleeping, waiting, and though unwanted, unbidden, it will stir.[…] It speaks to us, guides us. Passion rules us all, and we obey. What other choice do we have?''_

Angel in: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, season 2, episode: Passion

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**Chapter 8: Stirring of Hearts – Amroth**

[The 12nd day of tuilë, in the year 641 of the Third Age]

The feast Celeborn had spoken of was held on the green grass of Calendil(1), the Green-tine between Celebrant and Anduin, where they had reached Lothlórien's eastern border upon their arrival. A merry fire had been built in a shallow stone ring in the middle of that green tongue, and the Galadherom who had chosen to remain in Celeborn's service were all present, save the Marchwardens who watched the borders.

Celeborn had the decency to invite the young King of Lothlórien as well, but the new ruler of the greater part of the Golden Wood politely declined, sending instead an invitation of his own to Arwen and Elladan, to visit his high house in the very heart of Lothlórien. Orophin, Haldir's youngest brother, who had brought the message, was also instructed to escort Erestor and Lindir to the house of the King.

The feast lasted until well after midnight, with songs and moonlight dances and lots of feywine, so every one was either too tired or too drunk to make another leagues-long walk through the Golden Wood afterwards. Therefore, Erestor and Lindir spent the rest of the night in one of Amroth's boats, talking with Rúmil, while Orophin – young, shy, pale-haired and very fair in face – only listened to them, without partaking in the conversation.

On the next morrow, they left Calendil, led by Orophin and escorted by a few Silvan Elves, who wore not the usual grey and white of Caras Galadhon but silver-green and brown garb, as had been their custom of old. They reminded Lindir of the Elves in Emyn Galen, who had been similarly clad.

They walked for the better part of the morning, til they finally reached an open space among the trees, wide enough to be a battle plain, yet blessedly peaceful. To their right stood a great mound, covered with a sward of grass, still keeping the fresh green of springtime. Upon it – as a double crown – grew two circles of trees: the outer had bark of snowy white and were crowned with fresh, green leaves, beautiful in their slender and shapely glory like pillars of marble and emerald; the inner were mallorn-trees of great height, greater even than the ones in Caras Galadhon, and their dark green crowns were still spotted with gold from the previous winter.

High and amid their branches were many white flets, with houses of various size built upon them, white or silver-grey, depending on the wood they were made of; and the light of the lanterns hanging from the higher branches was white or pale green, for they had crystals in their middles that stored up the sunlight during daytime and glowed brightly in the night or in shadow.

At the feet of the trees and all about the sides of the hill, the grass was studded with small, golden, star-shaped flowers, and among them, nodding on slender stalks, flowers of a green so pale that it gleamed white against the rich green of the grass. Over all the sky was deep blue, and the sun of early afternoon slanted among the tree-stems.

There Orophin halted and spoke hesitantly in his soft voice.

''You are come to Cerin Amroth, my friends. For this is the mound of King Amroth, and here his high house has been built, for Caras Galadhon has fallen to usurpers and is his city no more. Here bloom the never-dying flowers in the unfading grass, even in the times of winter – but now you have the luck to see them in their full glory at springtime: the yellow _yri_(2) and the pale _nifredil_(3). Come with me now – King Amroth wishes to see you.''

He led them to a towering tree in the very middle of the hilltop and gave a whistle, perfectly imitating some songbird that Erestor knew not; but he was sure that Lindir did. Just like in Caras Galadhon, a winding stairway rolled down, hugging the smooth stem of the great mallorn, and they walked up, leaving flets with different kinds of rooms built upon them on their left and right, til they reached the house of the young King.

It looked very much like the chamber in which Celeborn and Galadriel dwelt, only a little more slender, more eerie – it seemed more part of the tree itself than a construct made by Elven hands. Arched balconies were attached to it on each side, open to the winds and the sunlight, and guards clad in green and brown but covered in the soft, grey cloaks made only by the Silvan folk stood there, armed with great bows and long, bone-hilted throwing knives. They were nearly invisible before the similar silver-grey of the tree-bark.

They nodded to Orophin and stepped aside to let him and the visitors pass, and in the antechamber they were welcomed by Haldir himself, who greeted them in the name of King Amroth and asked them to follow him. Orophin returned to the brothers' own chambers, located upon a nearby flet, to have some rest.

The royal chamber of King Amroth was built very much like that of Caras Galadhon, with the trunk of the great mallorn growing thorough its midst, now tapering towards its crown, and yet making still a pillar of wide girth, gleaming smoothly like silver in the soft golden light of the early afternoon. Here, too, the members of the court were seated, among them Fíriel and a respectable looking, elder Silvan woman whom Erestor recognized as Gwenethlin(4), Haldir's mother. And on a masterfully-carved, great throne, made from the dried-out trunk of a fallen iron-oak, beneath the bole of the tree and canopied by a living bough, there sat Amroth son of Amdír, rightful King of Lothlórien.

He wore a long under robe from that soft, silver-grey fabric the famous cloaks of the Silvan folk were made of, and above it a wide-sleeved, moss-green robe of heavy silk, held together by a delicately-woven mithril clasp upon his throat. Although partially of Sindarin descent, he looked very much like the Wood-Elves of Emyn Galen whom Lindir had visited a few times with Radagast during his childhood.

He was of smaller stature than the Noldor, only a few inches taller than the Lady Arwen, lithe and light-footed, and – as they would find out later – could move through the bushes like a ghost, without making the slightest noise; not even the keenest Elven ears were able to hear him.

As was common among the Silvan folk, he had auburn hair that changed its colour with the changing of seasons: it was light brown during _ethuil_, gleamed with weaved-in golden tresses during _laer_, became coppery, almost flaming red during _iavas_ and began to fade towards brown during _firith_ that was called _narbeleth_ in Lothlórien. Deep brown, nearly black it was during _hrív_, beginning to take on a lighter tone in _echuir_ again (5). Lindir always found it fascinating to see that an Elf would change his colours the same way the leaves did, and at times he almost wanted to become a Wood-Elf, so that he could watch the changes on himself.

Yet there were other differences, too. His slightly slanted eyes, with their strange colour somewhere between green and brown, clearly marked Amroth as a Wood-Elf, and his ears, too, were longer and more leaf-shaped than those of the Noldor. But most astonishing of all, Lindir found that the skin of Silvan Elves reacted to the sun: it had a light tan that deepened with the coming of laer, and faded after that, but never became as pale as the Noldor were. Amroth, too, was sun-tanned, but – not being a full-blooded Wood-Elf – less so than his own subjects, even Haldir and his brothers, who were half-Nandor.

He rose from his magnificent throne now to greet his guests, and as he spoke the customary words of greeting with his slightly accented voice, Lindir was reminded of the youngest Prince of Emyn Galen, whom he had met once or twice, and who he knew to be only a little older than King Amroth. This was, of course, not surprising at all, knowing (as Lindir did) that Amroth's deceased mother(6) and the wife of King Thranduil of Emyn Galen were first-grade cousins.

Erestor delivered the message, which King Amroth read at once with great interest, but his face revealed naught about its contents. Then he thanked Erestor for delivering it, offered him the hospitality of his own house – which Erestor politely refused, giving him the same answer that he had given to Celeborn – and told them to feel free to stay in his realm as long as they liked.

This clearly being a dismissal, Erestor took his leave and followed Haldir to the flet where his friend – now first counselor of the new King – had his house built.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

[The 11th day of lairë in the year 641 of the Third Age.]

Time passed by swiftly in the timelessness that was Lothlórien. Springtime was gone and the long, lazy summer season had begun, and Lindir had learnt to love the life in the treetops, even though he greatly missed the beauty and more down-to-earth comfort of Imladris.  But he could not deny that there were more things going on in Caras Galadhon, where – due to Elrond's wishes – he had spent half his time, in order to learn ''appropriate behaviour''- whatever the Lord of the Valley had meant by that.

Erestor, of course, accompanied him every time, and the two of them had long, interesting talks with the Lord Celeborn. Galadriel never approached them again, after their first encounter, where she came to understand that Lindir's innocence had shielded him against her prying into his heart. In truth, Lindir had been the only Elf in her entire life whose thoughts she had not been able to invade, and that made her feel uncomfortable.

For most of the time, though, they stayed in King Amroth's realm, which contained the most ancient part of Lothlórien, and dwelt under Haldir's roof with his mother, his younger brothers and Fíriel, who was considered part of the family now, even if their love could only last while both she and Haldir dwelt on this side of the Sea.

Lindir had learnt many new things during this time, most of which made him astonished and a little bewildered, and Erestor – having grown accustomed to politics during his long years as Elrond's chief counsellor – had to make great efforts to make him understand things that were clear to anyone else.

He greatly wondered, before aught else, why the King of Lothlórien lived not in Caras Galadhon, which was the seat of Kings and had been the city of his own father once, and why there was so little love between Amroth and the new rulers of the Tree City, despite him being related to the Lord Celeborn and having been acknowledged as the Heir of the Golden Wood. Though Lindir found the King's new house beautiful, he thought that Amroth should have more contact with Celeborn's court, for he found the Tree Lord friendly and wise.

He hesitated not to voice his opinion – even though Erestor advised him against it, not wanting to anger the young King –, but Amroth only snorted and went on to rant against the Lady Galadriel, whom he seemed to hate with a passion that seemed unbecoming of such an otherwise restrained person as he was. He never even spoke Galadriel's name, calling her only the Kinslayer, not only behind her back, but face to face on the rare occasions when they had to meet, accusing her of taking his rightful heritage from him.

This remainded Lindir of the fuming of Thranduil, King of Emyn Galen (and Amroth's uncle), who, too, had often complained to Radagast with bitter words about Galadriel's ''intrusion'' into what should rightly be the heritage of the Silvan folk.

For some reason, though, the embittered young King of Lothlórien had taken a liking to Lindir (as almost anyone else did, in spite of the young minstrel's often careless words in which he said what he thought, not caring how it would be accepted) and often invited him to his magnificent tree-house to sing to him and his slowly forming court. They would sit on the green grass at the feet of the great trees, listen to Lindir's music and songs, and the Silvan Elves of the Wood came from afar to partake in those serene feasts.

Arwen, too, came frequently, and often she was seen in deep conversation – or even in comfortable silence – with King Amroth. It seemed to Erestor that the Lady Galadriel's scheme (of which, as a member of Elrond's family, he naturally had been told) would come to fruition after all. He spoke of this with Haldir (who, in Amroth's court, was called by his true name, Hathaldir, just as his brothers were called by the Silvan form of their names, Rhimbron and Orfin(7) – Amroth was somewhat of a traditionalist), asking him how Galadriel might have persuaded the young King to accept her ''solution'' to the so-called ''Lórien problem''.

But Haldir only laughed at his question.

''I think not that it was her doing,'' he answered. ''In fact, I suspect that they both try to outwit each other with this very idea: the Lady tries to get King Amroth under control, and our King hopes to secure his claim for the whole of Lothlórien through a marriage with the Lady Undómiel.''

''Undómiel?'' Erestor repeated with a frown.

Haldir shrugged.

''That is how he called the Lady Arwen upon first sight. He said her beauty would shine in the darkness of this world like the evening star upon the midnight sky. He also said the visions of Lúthien that Gildor's old minstrel has gifted upon him were naught compared to her.''

''And he is giving her a name already?(8)'' Erestor murmured. ''May it be that he is stepping into his own trap?''

''I believe not that King Amroth tried to deceive the Lady Undómiel,'' Haldir said seriously. ''I was not present during their first private conversation, but my mother was there, so I know that he was honest with her. And Lady Arwen explained him just as honestly why would she consider wedding him at all. I know no details, of course, Mother would never tell aught else, but I do think that it might be good for Lothlórien, should the two of them bond.''

''That might be; but would it be good for the Lady Arwen as well?'' Erestor asked. ''Could they be sure to find a true soul-mate in each other when they get sealed for eternity, only to ensure the peace of the Golden Wood?''

''And who can say that would make her unhappy?'' Haldir answered with a question of his own. ''My parents had been so very certain that they had found the right one in each other – what good has it brought to them?  Did it save my father, so that he could return to us?''

Erestor remained silent for a while, for Haldir and his brothers usually spoke not of their father, not even his name (which seemed strange to Lindir who repeatedly asked for the reason of such behavior). Erestor knew, of course, that Malgalad – a Nandor Elf of noble descent – had been King Amdír's chief warlord and had led the remainder of Lothlórien's army into battle after Amdír had been slain upon the battle plain of Dagorlad, being cut off from the main host and driven into what was called later the Dead Marshes(9).

After that, Haldir's father vanished without a trail. His body was never found; most likely he had been captured and dragged to an unknown fortress deep in Mordor where the servants of the Dark Lord lay hidden, preparing for a new Master to arise. There had been whispered rumors that Malgalad might not have been killed but turned into some hideous monster and was now serving the evil purposes of the Enemy, even after _He_ had been overthrown and perished.

These were, of course, malevolent rumors only – but hurtful enough for Haldir to become haughty and slightly hostile towards every one who was not already an old friend (like Erestor). It made Rúmil's nature, once so merry, a little bitter and his jokes biting. And it caused Orophin – the youngest brother, who had hardly ever known their father – to withdraw even more into himself, til his voice was hardly heard any more unless necessary.

Gwenethlin carried her unspoken shame with stubborn pride, saying that she would have gone to Mandos' Halls voluntarily, should the rumors have proven true; yet no-one could silence them completely, and now the whole family had to wear the mark of evil, with or without true reason.

Erestor, who had known the noble Nandor Elf in his youth, cared not for these rumors, of course; nor did Amroth or even Elrond, for that – still, the only place where Malgalad's family would be fully accepted was Amroth's court. And even there, his name was never spoken.

''Too many people were lost, who thought to have found their true mates,'' Erestor said quietly, remembering his own parents and their horrible death. ''Not even truest love can save one from the cruel twists of fate. And yet, I would wish for both your King and the Lady Arwen to choose out of love.   Eternity can be a very long time.''

''Do you believe I know that not?'' Haldir replied bitterly. ''Eternity is what will separate me from Fíriel, once we decide to depart over Sea, no matter how great and true the love between us might be.  For we both were wedded to other people ere we first met – and though they were killed Ages ago, we still are bound to them and will have to return to them, once in Aman – or so your wise Noldorin lore-masters say.''

''You cannot be sure of that,'' Erestor said. ''Glorfindel says the bond is only true once your fëas have fully merged… But if you have merged with Fíriel, you cannot have done so with your spouses, can you?''

But Haldir only shook his head in defeat.

'''Tis not that easy, my friend. For though 'tis true that Sillith(10) and I never fully experienced the Joining(11) – for she got killed mere weeks after our wedding, which had been an arranged one – Fíriel seems to be one of those rare Elves who are able to love more than once. She had merged with her husband, back during the First Age – but she also merges with me, every single time we make love. And yet we cannot seal our union, for the law forbids it.''

''But the law is binding for the Noldor only(12),'' Erestor said. ''You are a Wood-Elf. Your customs allow the ending of a marriage, under certain circumstances – even if such a thing is said to be rare.''

''It is very rare,'' Haldir replied, ''for Wood-Elves usually bond for eternity as well. But even though I could be released from my bond, Fíriel cannot be freed from hers. She is a Noldo, and your harsh law binds her to her first mate, for eternity.''

''So there is naught you could do?'' Erestor asked compassionately.

''Oh, there is,'' Haldir laughed mirthlessly. ''We can remain in Middle-earth and fade away together.''

''If that is the only way for us to stay together, I am willing to do that,'' a soft yet steady voice said from behind them.

They turned back and saw Fíriel approach them, smiling lovingly at Haldir, and though he had known her since his early childhood, Erestor now saw the her beauty for the first time, regardless of the scars and brand marks that marred her once-flawless face.

She was as tall as he was (and thus a few inches shorter than Haldir, whose tall stature had been a result of his Nandorin descent), and lithe and graceful, despite having seen all three Ages of Middle-earth. Her heavy mass of dark hair was bound back in a cloth that formed an embroidered sack upon the back of her neck, keeping the silky strands neatly out of her face, and she wore the long apron of a healer tied over her green gown, the long sleeves of which were rolled up above her elbows, leaving her shapely arms free.

Long, dark lashes framed her dark grey eyes, making her glance even more stern; Erestor remembered being deadly afraid of her as a young elfling and fleeing to Elrond's or Glorfindel's chambers when he could not endure her disapproval any longer. But now she looked young and happy, still smiling gently at Haldir; and she stepped close to him and kissed him soundly and thoroughly, not caring who else might have seen them.

Then she turned to Erestor.

''The Lord Celeborn wishes to inform you that the boats leave for Edhellond in two day's time,'' she said. ''If you still intend to go with them, you should better make preparations.''

Erestor thanked her and left, knowing that his presence was not required, and they began kissing in earnest, completely forgetting for a moment that they still were on the open balcony of Haldir's house – very visible to anyone who might pass by.

''How long, exactly, do you intend to stay?'' Haldir asked between kisses.

''As long as you would have me,'' Fíriel replied, her skilled fingers starting to unlace his tunic.

''Be careful,'' Haldir warned, capturing one hand and bringing it to his lips to kiss each finger separately; ''You might never leave this place.''

''So be it,'' Fíriel shrugged, rubbing her face into the long, ash blonde hair of her lover. Unlike his habit when on journeys, Haldir wore his hair unbraided this evening, waiting for her to make those fine braids and delicate lover's knots she preferred adorning his hair with; she enjoyed the fragrant scent of summer forest that still clung to it, after their playful tryst in the grass from the previous night.

''Are you done for today?'' Haldir asked, for Fíriel had been rather busy lately, giving lessons to the young healers of the Silvan folk, based on the vast experiences of her long life.

Fíriel nodded and smiled against the fine silk that was his hair.

''Just finished. I am free til tomorrow… save the long and thorough lesson I intend to give you.''

''Hmmm,'' Haldir murmured, resting a hand on her pleasantly rounded backside; ''I think I might like that.  But would the lesson not be much sweeter in my bed?''

Fíriel raised an eyebrow.

''Getting impatient, are we, young one?'' this had been an ongoing jest between them, ever since they became lovers, Fíriel being only slightly younger than Gwenethlin herself. ''Ah, well, if you insist…''

''I most certainly do,'' Haldir exclaimed with mock seriousness. ''After all, how often do I get a chance to enjoy your lessons? I wish not to waste a moment of our time together.''  He kissed her deeply. ''I want you,'' he kissed her again, with even more passion. ''I need you,'' and another time, slowly and sweetly, ''I love you.''

''And I love you, too,'' Fíriel combed his hair with her long fingers. ''In three Ages I have found no other lover who could ignite such passion in me as you do. I spoke the truth when I said that I would rather give up the Blessed Realm than give you up.''

The fierce determination in her voice almost frightened Haldir. Not that he did not return her feelings tenfold; for he did. But he still feared that she would make a promise that she would not be able to fulfill later, no matter how earnestly given.

''Speak not of such things, not yet at least, I beg you,'' he murmured against her dark silk of hair that still kept the scent of healing herbs she had been working with all day. ''Let us retreat to our bed and enjoy what we have now.''

Fíriel had no objections against that, so they retreated to Haldir's bedchamber that was soon filled with their soft laughter, low moans and muffled cries of passionate enjoyment.

A few branches higher, on the balcony of his own house, King Amroth, young Lord of the major part of Lothlórien, was standing deep in thought. As glad as he was that his old friend and tutor had finally found happiness, he could not deny a slight pang of jealousy.

''Do you believe I am doing the right thing?'' he asked Haldir's mother, the seneschal of his court, who had been a mother to him after his own had been killed. ''That tis honest to pursue the Lady Undómiel, though I only feel respect and admiration towards her?''

''Tis a good beginning,'' Gwenthlin answered thoughtfully, ''and she certainly is worth of your respect and admiration. She would make the greatest Queen in the history of our people, for is she not the child of Lúthien the Fair? Your realm could become a second Doriath, if you succeed to win her heart as well as her hand.''

''Tis true that it seems Lúthien Tinúviel is walking again on earth when she appears,'' Amroth agreed, and Gwenethlin nodded.

''That is certainly so; and she is said to be almost as strong in her powers of enchantment as was Lúthien. Yet you must consider, my Lord, that she is deeply wounded right now. There is another one in her heart, and you are merely a distraction.  Do not promise aught or do not ask any promises from her til she has overcome her grief for this other one. It could only bring you more pain and sorrow – both of you.''

''But how can I see if her heart has truly changed?'', asked Amroth. ''I am not experienced in the matters of the heart; for all my lovers have been playful distractions so far, just as I have been a distraction for them. I wish not to miss the right moment!''

''You shall not,'' Gwenethlin smiled; sometimes the young King was even more clueless than her own youngest son. ''You might be young, my Lord, yet you are no fool. Nor is Arwen Undómiel the same ruthless, manipulative person as the Lady of Caras Galadhon. She might have a certain hardness in her, but at least she is honest. Ask her straight out, and she will answer you in the same manner.''

''I wonder what is it that binds the Lord Celeborn to his wife,'' Arwen murmured. ''He is one of us, after all. Does she have him under some sort of spell? She does possess strange powers…''

Gwenethlin shook her head. She knew not for certain what Galadriel's ''strange powers'' were like, but she was honest enough to admit, that they had been so far beneficial for the Golden Wood – even if she liked the Lady not.

''Nay,'' she said; ''unless 'tis the spell of true love. I have known the two of them since Doriath, and I certainly have little lover for the Kinslayer Princess, but there is one thing about her that I have learnt to be true: the only thing – or, better, the only one – she loves more than she loves power is the Lord Galathrin. At times I almost believe he is the only one she is truly able to love.''

Amroth gave her a surprised look, and she smiled.

''Do you think she would live in a treetop otherwise? As much as she desires to be the Lady of the Golden Wood, if it were up to her, she would have had a palace built in the middle of Lothlórien – or, at least, a fortress as Menegroth used to be, the Thousand Caves of Elu Thingol. Yet she had cast away Altariel Artanis, the Warrior Princess of the Noldor, for the Lord Galathir, accepted the lower, rustic life of our people for his sake – even restrained herself from vengeful actions towards you, my Lord. Nay; if anything, their love is true and deep – though I very much doubt that she is able to love any one else than her husband.''

''Not even their own children?'' Amroth asked. Gwenethlin shrugged.

''She did every thing she could to drive Celebrían and your father apart – luckily so, I would say, for Celebrían seems to be very happy with Elrond… whom the Lady never liked either, to tell the truth. And I very much doubt that she loves Arwen, who – being a descendant of Melian – is of much nobler birth than she is, despite the blood of mortal Men that is mixed with that of our kind in her veins.''

''Why is that of importance?'' Amroth asked.

''For it means that she will never rule over Arwen's fate,'' said Gwenethlin, ''for Arwen is much stronger, even now, due to her heritage and her innocence. Should you succeed in winning Arwen's hand and heart, my lord, you must know that you would not win a wife who would obediently follow your rule. You would win a Queen who would rule at your side and restrict her might only out of love and consideration; just as Melian ruled at the side of Elu Thingol.  So,'' she added gravely, ''you ought to think carefully about what you can gain and what you can lose, if you choose to pursue a bond with her.''

Amroth nodded wordlessly, thanking the Valar for having a counselor so wise, experienced and helpful as Gwenethlin was, and they looked down together, watching as Erestor returned, having hunted down Lindir somewhere in the woods to begin the necessary preparations for their long journey to the South Haven.

''I wonder,'' the young King said, ''when Erestor will finally understand that the youngling loves him with all his heart?  It seems rather obvious to every one else but him.''

''There will still be a long way to go,'' Gwenethlin smiled, ''unless Lindir overcomes his shyness and tells him straight to his face. Yet even longer would it take Erestor to admit his own feelings towards the boy.''

''Does he have feelings for the boy?'' Amroth asked in surprise; Erestor was always so reserved, it was hard to imagine that he had any feelings at all.

Gwenethlin laughed.

''Oh yes, he has; very much so, indeed. You should see him watching Lindir when the boy is with other people – how jealous he becomes when Lindir is laughing and jesting with my younger sons; especially with Orfin who is nearest his age.''

''Does he have any reason to feel jealous?'' Amroth frowned. A confrontation with Elrond's chief counselor and foster son was naught he would wish for right now. Gwenethlin shook her head.

''Though both Rhimbron and Orfin are somewhat… drawn to him, Lindir still is under-aged, according to law.  My sons would never touch someone ere he reaches legal maturity. Not that they would ever have a chance,'' she added with a chuckle. ''The boy is so devoted to Erestor, he hardly even realizes the many admirers he has.''

She paused for a moment, then she changed the topic.

''By your leave, I shall be leaving your court for a while, my Lord; yet this should mean no hindrance in its smooth working. Fíriel is more than able to fill in for me.''

''Where do you intend to go?'' Amroth asked in surprise.

''I have a family obligation to fulfill,'' replied Gwenethlin. ''There is a young woman, related to my mother's family from afar, whose education I shall have to oversee for a short while. She is – or rather shall be – one of the Wise Women of our folk and is just upon the threshold of maturity. And since she has no other family left, 'tis my duty to see that her powers properly unfold and that she has been taught everything she needs to know.''

Amroth nodded. The Wise Women, born with special powers over the soil, the waters and the plants, enjoyed great respect among the Silvan folk, but their numbers had dwindled in these lesser days – in fact, right now Gwenethlin was the only one left in Lothlórien. Any one born with the ability of wield earth magic was therefore cherished and protected and carefully taught, for the in-born powers alone were not enough, and the woodland folk depended on their might, in order to make life in the forests a pleasant one. These women were called Lady, regardless of their birth, and considered the true leaders of the Silvan clans, regardless who was officially wearing the title of the King.

''Of course,'' said the young King; ''I feel lucky that another one of the Wise Ones chose to dwell within my realm. What is her name and where is her home?''

''Her name is Nimrodel,'' Gwenethlin answered, ''and she dwells near the northern border of the Wood, among the branches of a great tree, as is the custom of our people. 'Tis near to the small stream that is called Lingorel or Taiglin(13) by some of the older people.''

''Do you need an escort?''  Amroth offered, but Gwenethlin shook her head.

''Orfin is due to return to his duties in a few days' time. I shall go with him and his fellow archers.''

''As you wish,'' Amroth paused. ''Give my respect to the Lady Nimrodel, pray you; and tell her that my court is always open, should she wish to visit.''

''I shall,'' Gwenethlin moved slowly away from the railing of the balcony. ''I have to go now, for there are some preparations that need to be made. Good day, my lord. And consider your steps carefully.''

The young King nodded again, and Gwenethlin returned to her own talan to think over all the things she might need during the time she was going to spend on the northern border, in the Lady Nimrodel's house.

As she ordered her phials and pottery cups of salves and slim silver flasks of herbal draughts, her look fell on a small vial that Fíriel should have taken from the medicine cabinet but had obviously forgotten.

A vial with the herbal draught specially brewed to avoid conception.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

End notes:

(1) Egladil in the FOTR. I simply assumed that centuries earlier it had a different name. BTW, Calendil (= Green Spirit) was one of the rejected names for that part of Lothlórien.

(2) Original name of elanor – I assumed that the traditionalists (like Amroth and his court) would still call it like that.

(3) Earlier form of niphredil.

(4) Who is my creation entirely. Gwenethlin was an earlier, rejected name for Melian the Maia, wife of Elu Thingol, King of Doriath.

(5) Spring, summer, autumn, fading, winter, stirring – since we are dealing with Wood-Elves here, this time I used the Sindarin names of the seasons, instead, as usual, the Quenya ones.

(6) In my head, I call her Galenbrethil, (= slender silver birch). Unfortunately, that name belongs not to me; it was invented by The Tired Scribe, for an entirely different character in her Coronar series (can be found on The Library of Moria site), and it wouldn't be a honest thing to steal it. Thus, the late Queen of Lórien remains nameless. Her being related to Thranduil's wife is, of course, my doing.

(7) These were the names Tolkien originally gave the three brothers, according to ''The Treason of Isengard''.

(8) Elven custom among lovers. The idea of Amroth giving Arwen her nickname is completely made up by me, of course.

(9) As I said, Malgalad and Amdír apparently are identical by Tolkien (see: ''The Unfinished Tales''), but I needed an important enough ancestor for Haldir, so I have created this mysterious father figure for him, at the same time explaining his importance for King Amroth.

(10) Name I made up in a moment of madness for Haldir's deceased wife – totally on a whim, so that I've even forgotten what the name was supposed to mean. Sounds very silly, though, so I might change it later.

(11) The merging of two loving souls. It is described in my other story, ''Of Snow and Stone and Wolves'', and is my creation. But tis said by Tolkien, that Elves mated mentally as well as bodily, so I thought I might invent something in this area.

(12) There is no proof for that in canon. In fact, Tolkien seems to speak in ''Laws and Customs'' about Elves in general. This is only my miserable attempt to go somehow around those harsh rules that I can't accept, at any costs.

(13) Earlier, rejected names for the river Nimrodel, according to ''The Treason of Isengard''. I assumed that it was not always named after the Lady Nimrodel.


	13. Chapter 9: Waterways

INNOCENCE  
by Soledad  


Disclaimer:  
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only the individual Lórien Elves belong to me. 

Rating: PG for this chapter. 

Please read Warnings before the Prologue.

Author's Notes:  
Summary: Lindir and Erestor go to the South Haven with the Lord Celeborn's people, who have trading business with Gildor's settlements. 

This one is a rather contemplative chapter - not to mention lengthy - following the boat journey of Lindir and Erestor from Lórien to Edhellond, partially based on the early decriptions of ''the Treason of Isengard, since we are some 2,400 years before the Ring War. 

Sorry, Finch, but the cliffhanger at the end of the previous chapter will only dealt with a lot later. Also, the explanations will be given then (considering the ah-so-interesting question of Elven reproduction).

Many thanks to Isabeau of Greenlea for beta-reading and for cleaning up the geographical mess I have caused.

CHAPTER 9: WATERWAYS 

[The 14th day of lairë in the year 641 of the Third Age.] 

The next two days were spent with eager preparations, and on the third morrow Rúmil woke their house-guests, saying: 

''Rise and shine like Anor, my friends; for our boats shall be leaving ere midday this very morning.'' 

''Our boats?'' Erestor repeated in surprise. ''Are you coming with us on this journey too?'' 

''Not with you, exactly...," Rúmil answered with a wry grin. ''I am to take a message from my King to Gildor Inglorion in Edhellond, for he went not through Lothlórien the last time he returned home, and 'tis safer to go with the fleet on the water than ride alone through the woods... even if it takes a lot longer.'' 

''Why, I always thought you people never leave the woods," Lindir remarked sleepily, offering the Lórien Elf one of his shy smiles. Rúmil laughed. 

''Not very often, that is true. Yet now that Hathaldir is needed on the King's side, someone else has to run his errands.'' 

''So, King Amroth is trying to make new alliances," Erestor remarked absently, watching as Lindir raced out to take a bath in a nearby pond, as had become his custom during their stay in the realm of Amroth. ''Well, Gildor Inglorion certainly is the right person if he is looking for someone who dislikes the Lady Galadriel.'' 

Once again, Rúmil made a wry face. 

''Sometimes I believe Gildor dislikes every one on the face of Earth... except his own niece... and his people, of course. He is a great leader of Elves, in spite of his rather... annoying nature. I wonder what he would say if he knew about the Kinslayer Princess' plans considering our King and the Lady Undómiel.'' 

Erestor gave him a sharp look. The fact that the Lady Arwen and Gildor had ended their relationship was no secret, still he did not want it to be discussed widely in the Golden Wood. Not even by his friends. 

''What do you know about him and the Lady Arwen?'' 

''Ai, Erestor, I beg you!'' Rúmil laughed. ''Have you forgotten that Fíriel belongs to our family now? By all but the letter of Noldorin law," he added softly, more seriously. ''I have never seen my brother happier... they share body and heart and soul - you truly believe they would keep aught in secret from each other?'' 

''By all but the letter of our law," Erestor repeated, just as softly. ''You believe they would choose to remain in Middle-earth and eventually fade away?'' 

Rúmil remained silent for a while, his eyes downcast. 

''I cannot tell for sure," he finally answered, ''yet I do have a feeling that they have already chosen.'' 

''How can you speak of this so calmly?'' Erestor wondered. ''That would mean that you shall never again see your brother, once you have set sail to the West.'' 

But Rúmil only shook his head with a sad little smile. 

''Nay, my friend," he said, ''for this we already decided many years ago: should one of us not wish to go to the West, the other two would stay as well. The Sea calls us not the same way it calls to you. We are perfectly content in our forests; for this is where we belong.'' 

''But you shall inevitably fade away if you stay in Middle-earth!'' Erestor warned, saddened by the thought that his friends would never seek out the peace of the Blessed Realm. 

''So what?'' Rúmil shrugged. ''Thus had been the fate of the Moriquendi ever since the Dawn of Days. Every living thing shall perish sometime - even Arda itself, and with it all the Elves, no matter here or beyond the Sea. I mind not vanishing sooner, so long as I can spend the time that I am given in freedom, under the trees. Besides," he added bitterly, ''not even the lights of Aman could wash the shame away that our father was accused of. Here at least we are accepted for what and who we are. But can you promise me that it would be so in the Blessed Realm, among all those Noldor and Vanyar?'' 

The return of Lindir brought the grave conversation to its end. Erestor washed hurriedly too, then they ate and left Cerin Amroth for the haven in Calendil, the Green-tine. It was a rather lengthy way, for they had to go around Caras Galadhon - neither Erestor nor Rúmil wanted to go through the Tree City. Lindir pouted at that a little, for it meant that he could not say his farewells to Elrond's children, but Rúmil was adamant. So the way was walked in stubborn silence, all ten miles of it, and Lindir only softened a little when they reached the banks of the Celebrant and he caught his first glimpse of the magnificent boats that were waiting for them - so very unlike the small and quick grey ones he had already had the pleasure to travel on during the length of his stay. 

These were boats made for long journeys and shipping wares - more barges than boats, indeed, wrought and carved by the skilled hands of the Galadhrim in the likeness of great swans - their long necks curved gracefully, their beaks shone like burnished gold, and their jewelled eyes glinted as if alive, for they were made of obsidian and topaz - with their half-lifted, huge wings balancing them perfectly to ensure safe travel upon the water. 

''These are the boats of the Lord Celeborn," Rúmil explained, ''made in Teleri-fashion. They bear his sigil only.'' 

The barges were loaded with goods, but there still remained enough room for a few passengers and for the grey-clad Elves who steered them with broad, black paddles so contrived that the blades folded back, as a swan's foot does, when they were thrust forward in the water(1). There also sat an archer in each barge, armed with the famous longbows of the Galadhrim, protecting both passengers and goods. Though the waterways had been mostly safe in the recent years, no one was foolish enough to travel unarmed. 

A rather large fleet it was, containing a dozen of these barges, for this was the time of the loa when the goods of the Golden Wood - mostly wares of woodcraft, clothes made of hithlain and other such things made by the Silvan folks only - were shipped down to the South in exchange for what Edhellond and the other settlements of Gildor's small realm could offer. It was a long journey, so it was not made every year; therefore a rather large amount of wares were shipped each time. 

Erestor and Lindir were directed to the second barge, for that one had been less deeply laden in order to bear their weight and bags, while Rúmil found his place in the one directly behind them and relieved one of the paddlers, who got out of the barge and into one of the small, grey boats that were to escort the fleet. 

Lindir looked around a little disappointed - yet the greater was his joy when he finally detected the Lady Arwen and her brothers passing the border of the outer woods of Caras Galadhon and hurrying towards the small haven. They embraced both their foster brother and the young minstrel, exchanging brotherly kisses on the cheek and giving them small presents and message tubes for their friends among Gildor's people, and Lindir sniffled a little, for it was not easy for him to leave them after all the long years they had spent together. 

At last, when all of this had been done, Erestor and Lindir finally boarded the barge, and the Galadhrim who served in the haven pushed the heavy boats away from the river bank with long poles. The others in charge, wielding the wondrous paddles of ingenious Elven carpentry, skillfully turned the vessels into the direction of the stream. While the long line of swan-ships escorted by the small, swift, grey boats majestically floated eastwards, both the Elves on the water and the ones on the river bank began to sing the old farewell song of the Teleri, the origins of which reached back to the Great Journey of the Eldar to the Blessed Realm. 

I sing of leaves of gold, and leaves of gold here grow:  
Of wind I sing, a wind here comes and in the branches blows.  
Beyond the Sun, beyond the Moon, the foam is on the Sea,  
And by the strand of Tírion there grows a golden Tree.  
Beneath the stars of Ever-eve in Eldamar it shines,  
In Eldamar, beside the walls of Elven Tírion.  
But far away and far away beyond the Shadow-meres  
Now long the golden leaves have grown upon the branching years.  
And Lórien, O Lórien, the river flows away;  
And leaves are falling in the stream, and leaves are borne away;  
O Lórien, too long I dwell upon this Hither Shore  
And golden yri here I twine in a fading crown.  
But if a ship I now should sing, what ship would come to me,  
What ship would bear me ever across the wide Western Sea?(2) 

The last tones of the sweet music were still trailing behind them when they passed along the green banks of Calendil, and it seemed to Lindir that Lothlórien itself would float away from them, slipping backwards like some wondrous green and white ship, with enchanted trees as its masts, sailing on forgotten shores, while they sat motionless in the midst of frozen waters. 

And as he sat there and watched Lothlórien fading away behind them, a vision came to him, born from ancient songs he had been taught and old legends he had been told about a strange land, far beyond the Bent Sea - a realm far removed in time and space - a realm called Fairie, existing mayhap in Elven nursery tales only. 

He saw himself standing upon a desolate shore, beside the Sea of Windless Storm, where the blue waves like snow-clad hills rolled silently out of Unlight to the long strand, bearing the white ships that returned from the Battles of the Dark Marches of which Men knew nothing and even among Elves only the oldest minstrels had ever heard of. 

He saw a great ship cast high upon the land, and the waters fell back in foam without a sound. The Elven mariners were tall and terrible in their grim beauty; their swords shone like living flames and their spears glinted like ice, and a piercing light was in their dark eyes. Suddenly they lifted up their clear, ringing voices in a great song of triumph, and his heart was shaken with fear, and he sank to his knees as they passed over him and went a way into the echoing hills(3). 

And as he was kneeling in the sand, still shaking from the intensity of this encounter, a Lady came out of the hills, tall and grave and beautiful beyond even Elven measure, clad in shimmering white and with white gems adorning her brow like tiny, twinkling stars. She seemed to be made of mist and moonlight rather than of flesh and blood, and her long, shining black hair embraced her slender frame like an ankle-long, black silk coat. Dark were her eyes, too, like the living night that had once been without fear, and yet there was a light in them, unlike any brightness he had ever seen. 

She held out a slender white hand and helped him to his feet again, and as they stood face-to face, Lindir could hear her thoughts as if they were spoken aloud. 

/A great gift you have been given, young one: the gift of true innocence. The Music is therefore pure and undisturbed in your heart. Remember what you have seen and the song you have heard upon these shores - and lighten the savage burden of the Firstborn by singing of them./ 

Lindir could not answer, not even in thoughts; he only nodded mutely. The Lady returned his nod and laid a blessing hand upon his bowed head. 

/Follow your heart, Son of Pure Music; listen to the Song that dwells in its depths, and it shall lead you rightly. Yet should you ever lose the gift you were given, you must set sail yourself and return here. For this is the only place that your heart might be healed.../ 

''Lindir? Lindir, can you hear me? Little one, is something wrong?'' 

Strong hands were shaking him, gripping his shoulders hard, and slowly Erestor's worried voice crept through the thick mist of his exaltation. He blinked several times, fighting the searing feel of utter loss, trying to shake off the slight dizziness that had befallen him from the much too abrupt return from the Unseen Realm, and gave his mentor a weak, reassuring smile. 

''Nay, Master Erestor... nothing is wrong.'' 

''What happened?'' Erestor asked. ''You went very pale all of a sudden, stiffened like a stick, and you did not hear us calling you.'' 

''I...," Lindir hesitated, ''I believe I had a vision... like the ancient minstrels used to have in the Elder Days.'' 

''You believe?'' Erestor repeated in surprise. Lindir shrugged. 

''It could have been a waking dream, after all... though I believe it was not. For I saw things I have only heard of in the eldest lays... and I heard a song that I did not know before.'' 

This surprised Erestor even more, for Lindir had learnt songs and tales and lays from Aiwendil and Iarwain and the River-daughter that were unknown even to Glorfindel - and he never forgot any of them. 

''What song?'' he asked carefully. Lindir gave him a confused look. 

''I know not. I believe it was in the secret tongue of Valinor; yet of that I cannot understand much. Master Aiwendil never truly taught me; I only picked up some stray words when he was talking to himself. And yet the Lady told me to remember my vision... and that I should sing of it to the Firstborn, in order to ease their burdens.'' 

''Which Lady?'' Erestor asked, almost tonelessly, but Lindir only shook his head in defeat. 

''No name I was given; yet I did see a white Queen with stars glittering like gems in her dark hair, and eyes dark like the fearless night before the coming of the Enemy; the Night Iarwain often spoke of. I know not who she was, but I could hear her thoughts in my heart.'' 

''Varda," Erestor murmured breathlessly, naming Elentári, the Queen of Stars, by her true name in his shock. ''Varda Oiolossëo has revealed herself to you in a vision... Can you imagine how rare a gift this is for someone still dwelling on this side of the Sea? What else have you seen?'' 

''I cannot speak of it," Lindir sighed, ''not yet. 'Twas terrible and beautiful at the same time; I shall have to understand it a little better first. I believe I will need to seek out Orgof's counsel once we reached Edhellond; he is now the oldest minstrel in Middle-earth, and he used to be a trusted friend of Daeron, the greatest of our Order(4). Mayhap he can help me to comprehend my vision.'' 

This was very true, for born minstrels had gifts that other people could not understand, not even the greatest lore-masters of old. Their gifts were given to them at birth, or - as some guessed - in the womb of their mother, therefore they were very selective about accepting someone into their midst. Lindir had been accepted by Orgof, the Eldest, for his gifts were obvious and greater than those of any other minstrel still alive, but he had much to learn ere he received his title as a Master Singer. Thus it was only reasonable that he would want to discuss his powerful vision with the Eldest of his Order. 

Still, it hurt Erestor a little that Lindir would not share it with him. Was this a sign that his young charge was slowly growing apart from him? The mere thought caused him unexpected pain. He could hardly imagine his life without Lindir in tow any more. 

While he was sitting there among saddened thoughts, the Celebrant finally passed out into the currents of Anduin, and the barges slowly turned southwards and began to take on speed. The Great River swept round a bent, and the banks slowly began to rise upon either side, so that the lights of Lothlórien now were completely hidden. 

Erestor now looked southwards, too, watching the hurrying waters and the woods along either bank, green and lovely in the lush splendor of early summer. The woods were so dense that not even his keen Elven eyes could see any glimpse of the lands beyond. A light breeze kissed their faces time and again, and the dark, wide waters of Anduin rolled southwards without a sound. The sweet voices of far-away songbirds floated above the companionable silence, and Lindir listened to their merry chatter with tilted head and a dreamy smile on his face, as if understanding what they were talking about. Mayhap he truly did. Growing up with Aiwendil could do that to an Elf. 

The sun deepened in color as the day grew old, til it gleamed like molten true-gold in the darkening sky. Then it slowly faded into the West, and finally dusk came, and Varda's stars appeared on the dark velvet carpet of the sky like bright silver lanterns. And when Eärendil's ship sailed high above their heads, the Silvan Elves in the barges, true children of starlight, burst into a wonderfully harmonic, yet wordless song, that seemed to Erestor like the first songs of the Quendi at the waters of Cuiviénen, ere even their kin learnt how to speak. 

It took him a moment to realize that Lindir joined their song, his sweet, clear voice rising above those of the others, his wide eyes mirroring the starlight, his pale hair gleaming like silver as the light of Ithil kissed it. And Erestor understood why the Lady of the Stars would grace the youngling with a vision; for it seemed to him that never since the Days of Awakening had a being of such innocence and such exquisite beauty walked the Earth. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

All in all, it was a very pleasant journey on the broad back of the Great River. Lindifar, the leader of the fleet, counted on reaching the Falls of Pensarn in a mere twelve days(5) - a fast voyage for such large, heavily loaded vessels, but the current was very strong this year due to the unusually high number of rainy days during the seasons of echuir and ethuil(6). Which meant that they might even be on time to celebrate the Autumn Festival with the folk of Edhellond - a chance that all welcomed, knowing how merrily the festivals were held in Gildor's realm. 

Erestor, who had never traveled southwards before, asked about their route and Lindifar readily explained to them that there was no direct waterway to Edhellond. They needed to travel with the current far, far down Anduin until the Sea itself; then they had to set sail and continue upon the Sea around the island Tolfalas in the bay of the Ethir Anduin. From there, they would sail north-west along the coasts of Belfalas, and around the peninsula of Tol Ondren(7), finally coming upon Edhellond from the Sea. 

It was a long way around indeed, but the only way to come to the South Haven by boat, for there was no river upon which they could have crossed the Mountains of Lamedon. And the Galadhrim preferred the waterways, for their barges were built to protect them from arrows, should some Orc-pack or other robbers have bows strong enough to shoot arrows over the distance of half the width of Anduin. Of course, the same distance was no true challenge for their magnificent longbows, as Rúmil playfully demonstrated during one of their short rests. 

Fortunately though, they saw no sign of any enemies on the second day of their journey, nor on the next one. The golden sunlit hours passed without event, and every now and again a song arose from one of the barges, and Lindir listened intently, soaking up the music of the Galadhrim like a dry cloth soaks up spilled water. 

As the third day of their voyage wore on, the lands changed slowly: the trees thinned and then failed altogether. On the east bank to their left, long formless slopes stretched up and away towards the sky; brown and unfriendly waste without even a withered tree or a bold stone to break the emptiness. Lindir shivered at the sight and shot a questioning look towards Erestor, who only shrugged, not being familiar with the lands east of the Hithaeglir. 

''We are come to Úwanwaith(8), the Withered Wold that lays in a vast desolation between Dol Dúghol(9) in the southern Emyn Galen and the hills of Sarn Gebir." Ithildor, the archer watching their barge, explained in his stead. ''Those are the lands where the wives of the Onodrim(10) once had their gardens and taught Elves and Men how to tend the fruits of the Earth.'' 

''What pestilence of war or fell deed of the Dark Lord has so blasted all this region then?'' Erestor asked, truly shaken himself. Ithildor sighed. 

''During the last Age, in the War of the Elves and Sauron, the Dark One burned all the great forests in his way to ash; for he wanted us not to have any hiding places. These lands suffered greatly from dragonfire(11); the Earth itself had been scorched many a foot deep. That is why Men call this region the Brown Lands - for dead it is still, and mayhap never shall bring forth any fruit again, unless Palúrien(12) herself comes over the Sea to heal it.'' 

Lindir shivered again and turned away from the dreadful sight. Upon the west bank to their right the land was treeless and quite flat, but green: there were forests of reeds of great height in places that shut out the view as the broad barges floated by along their fluttering borders. The great, withered flowering heads bent in the light, warm air, murmuring softly and waving like funeral plumes in Mannish settlements. Here and there in the open places he could see across the wide rolling meads hills far away, or - on the edge of sight - a dark line where still the southernmost phalanx of the Hithaeglir marched. 

''You are looking out across the great pastures of Calenardhon," Ithildor said. ''These lands belong to Gondor, the South-kingdom of the Men of Westernesse. I heard they are very good for horse-breeding, though the herds are rarely brought down to the Great River. There are many lesser streams that serve their needs better." He shot Erestor a questioning look. ''You never came this far southwards, did you? Or else you would remember the Úwanwaith and its sad tale. You are old enough to have fought in the Last Battle upon Dagorlad...'' 

''I did," Erestor replied, shuddering from old memories, ''but I originate from Ost-in-Ethil in Eregion, the fair city of Celebrimbor, and after its fall I rarely left Imladris.'' 

They fell in silence again, and Ithildor returned to the back of their barge, for the river broadened and grew shallow; bleak stony beaches lay upon the east, there were gravel shoals in the water and the Lórien Elves had to steer carefully. The Brown Lands rose into bleak wolds, but the light breeze still blew from the West, and that eased their hearts. 

Upon the other side the meads had become low-rolling downs of bright green grass, sparkling in the sunlight like emeralds. There was something incredibly peaceful about sitting in the middle of the broad barge, safe and protected, Erestor thought. His back leaned against the well-rounded sacks of suncorn flour(13), while Lindir snuggled against his side, resting his head on Erestor's chest and humming in a sweet, low voice in his waking dreams. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

So the long days of golden summer passed in peace, between song and merriment and old tales told by starlight, until the end of the seventh day. The banks were still bare, but on both sides of the slopes above them bushes were scattered; behind and further south ridges with twisted fir-trees could be glimpsed. 

''Ai! Finally," Lindifar cried back from the lead barge; ''we are drawing near the hill country of Sarn Gebir. We have done well indeed.'' 

''Tis the southern border of Wilderland, beyond which lay the Nomanland and the foul marches that lie for many leagues before the passes of Mordor," Ithildor explained. ''Thank the Valar, that black land is now bereft of its Dark Lord and closely watched by the Men of the South-kingdom, so that the paths along the Great River are considerably safer.'' 

''Why should that be any concern to us?'' Erestor asked. ''Are we not safe on the water?'' 

''We are," Ithildor agreed, ''but we shall have to stop for tonight and bring our boats to the west bank. The rapids of Pensarn(14) are ahead. They are not very long, nor very fierce, yet too dangerous to venture in the dark, even for us who know the Great River well.'' 

And indeed, the small horn of Lindifar called the fleet to a halt only a few moments later. They brought the barges near the west bank, and some of the Lórien Elves leapt up to the river bank to secure them with the famous, silver-grey ropes of hithlain to the tree-trunks above. Every one save the watches got off, a small fire was lit, and soon they could enjoy their first hot meal in many days. 

Rúmil joined Erestor and Lindir on the sun-warmed grass, and with him came a female archer of the Wood, tall and slender and with long, ash-blonde hair like his own. He introduced her as Calagniel(15), and old friend of his. To Lindir's surprise neither Rúmil, nor his lady friend ate aught from the delicious roasted meat that was the main dish of the evening. 

''Tis a custom of the Green-Elves(16)," Erestor explained with a smile. ''They have not eaten meat ever since the days of their glory in Ossiriand. Nandor Elves are a strange lot," he added with a grin. Rúmil rolled his eyes. 

''Say aught like that to my baby sister, and you shall regret the day you decided to visit Edhellond," he warned. Erestor laughed. 

''Your 'baby sister' is older than Elladan and Elrohir, and she has been married for... how many years?'' 

''Sixty-four," Rúmil replied. ''Nevertheless, she would tear your head off, should you speak badly of our people. She is very proud of our heritage.'' 

''Are not you all?'' Erestor shrugged. ''But do tell me: how long til we reach the falls of Tol Brandir? I deem that will be the most dangerous part of our journey, for we will go upon land around the Rapids.'' 

''Mayhap not so much dangerous in these days as tiring," Rúmil said, ''for we shall climb down from the hills to Pendarn-foot carrying first the barges and then our load, and then take boat again. Two more days to the Rapids, if all goes well, and nearly two more til we can return to Anduin. 'Tis always the hardest part of such a journey; but one that cannot be avoided," and he yawned discretely. ''But at least tonight we can sleep on the firm floor of these woods... it eases my heart as well as my limbs.'' 

They all laughed in agreement, for no matter how spacious the barges were, every one felt cramped after all those days spent on water. That night they camped on the small eyot close to the west bank and slept peacefully under the watchful eyes of the Lórien archers. 

On the next morrow they ate swiftly and returned to their barges, paddling now for long spells, and the banks went swiftly by. For two days they traveled with short rests only, for Lindifar wanted to reach the Rapids as quickly as possible. The weather remained beautiful, with golden sunshine and a clear, blue sky, and the songs had not ceased from sunrise to sunset, not even for the better part of the night. 

During those days the country on either side was changing rapidly. The banks began to rise and grow stony. Soon they were passing through a hilly, rocky land, and on both shores there were steep slopes, covered in bushes or short grass. Behind them stood low crumbling cliffs of grey, weathered stone dark with ivy; and beyond them again there rose high ridges crowned with wind-writhen firs. They were drawing near to the open hill-country of the Emyn Muil, the southern march of Wilderland. 

Lindifar wanted to reach the Rapids on the following morning, so they traveled all day and during the next night as well, sleeping in the barges, save those who steered them. In the morning, the rushing of the River over the rocks of the Rapids seemed to grow louder and closer. The twigs of the trees above them began to drip, and the air grew pleasantly warm when they steered their boats to the west bank once again, glad for the chance to stretch their cramped limbs. 

''Now we shall have to empty our boats and pull them up on land," Lindifar announced, mostly for Erestor and Lindir, since the others knew it already from past experience, ''for not even Elven boats could come through Pensarn unharmed. But there is a portage-way here, on the western shore, and that is where we shall carry both the boats and their load for quite some length. This will be hard work, yet there is no other way, I fear.'' 

''How far is it?'' Erestor asked; he feared not for himself but for Lindir, who - though always taking his fair share of work in Imladris - was not used to bearing great hardship. 

''Not very far, if you are not loaded with a burden," Lindifar answered with a shrug. ''From this landing, the head of the Rapids is but half a mile below us; and they are little more than a mile long. Beyond them, the stream becomes clear and smooth again, though it runs swiftly. Getting there is the hard part of the work. Let us begin now!'' 

It was a hard task, indeed, to unload all the barges and carry them up to the portage-way that ran a furlong or more from the shore, well back from the water-side, under the lee of a rock-wall. But the Lórien Elves were used to this route, having traveled it every ten or twelve years, and they knew their way around the hindrances. It took a few hours only to take the goods out of the barges and bring them to a level place on top of the bank, where they were left under the protection of a few archers. Then the barges themselves were drawn out of the water and carried up - a difficult task even for the skilled Galadhrim, for though they were surprisingly light, they also were rather broad and hard to balance out of the water. 

The hardest part was to haul them over the ground, up to the portage-way. Once there, it took little effort for the Galadhrim to lift them onto their shoulders and carry them away to the next serviceable landing. Nevertheless, it took them all day to transport both the barges and the goods on land and load the wares into the boots again, even with every one taking their fair share of the work. They were all tired, and so Lindifar ordered one more night spent on the shore, for they all needed to rest; and so they ate and sang and slept in good spirits, ready to face the Rapids on the next day. 

In the early morning they finished packing and took off once gain, keeping as close as possible to the western side, for they already could see the dim shapes of low cliffs rising ever higher, shadowy walls with their feet in the hurrying water. The channel grew narrower and the River swifter, so that the Galadhrim needed all their considerable skills to keep the barges on the safest path in the water. It was an eerie way, with the bright blue sky high above their heads, the dark, over-shadowed water all around them and the black hills of Emyn Muil, in which no opening could be seen, right before them, shutting out the warmth of the golden sunshine. 

Lindir shivered, instinctively shifting closer to Erestor as he peered forward towards the rapidly approaching great rocks at some distance. The great pillars seemed to rise up like giants before him as the River whirled their boats like mere leaves towards them. In his mind's eye he saw them carved and still preserving through the suns and rains of many forgotten years the likenesses that had been hewn upon them. Upon great pedestals founded in the deep water he thought he saw two great Kings of stone standing, gazing through blurred eyes northwards. The left hand of each was raised beside his head in a gesture of warning and refusal: in each right there was an axe. On each head there was a crumbling crown and a helm. There was a silent power in these grim wardens of a long-vanished kingdom(17), reminding everyone of the once overwhelming greatness of Westernesse, now preserved only as a faint remembrance in the Mannish kingdoms of the Dúnedain. 

''These are the Gates of Sarn-Gebir(18)," said Ithildor quietly, ''marking the northern border of Gondor, the South-kingdom of Men. After we have passed the Gates, you shall be able to see their high seats upon Amon Lhaw and Amon Hen, the Hills of Hearing and of Seeing, where they always keep watch. We shall travel in safety for the rest of our journey.'' 

And indeed, in a short time they whirled, broad barges dancing like frail nutshells upon the water, under the shadow of the huge, frightening rocks, through the dark chasm of the Gates, filled with the noise of wind and rushing water and echoing stone, shooting out after what seemed eternity to both Erestor and Lindir into the wide, clear light again.  


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

End notes: 

Well, this seemed as good a place to stop as any other, for I didn't want to go into any more boring detail about the journey. And since I have no idea how they could go around the waterfall without having them carry the boats on land once again or missing up the geography totally (saying that landscapes change in 2,400 years), I simply decided to avoid saying anything about it. There might be a few explaining lines in the next chapter, though. 

(1) A concept that Tolkien later rejected, according to ''The Treason of Isengard'', because it was too much ''ingenious carpentry'' for his taste.  
(2) Earlier version from Galadriel's song from ''The Treason of Isengard''. I altered some parts of it - and, of course, it's not a canon fact that it would origin from the Teleri.  
(3) See: Smith of Wootton Major by JRR Tolkien. Quoted after Michael Martinez' article: ''Have you been to Valinor lately?''  
(4) There is no canon fact supporting my idea that the Elven minstrels belonged to a sacred Order. Absolutely none. But again, it is no-where said that they did not, correct?  
(5) The Fellowship of the Ring needed ten days to reach the Rapids in winter with the smaller, faster boats.  
(6) Stirring and spring. Unlike in Rivendell, Wood-Elves used the Sindarin names of seasons.  
(7) Dol Amroth, actually - but I had to give the place another name at that time, since Amroth still was alive and kicking; Tol Ondron was supposed to be an island in the middle of Anduin, similar the Carrock in ''The Hobbit''; an idea that Tolkien rejected afterwards.  
(8) The Brown Lands  
(9) Earlier, rejected name of Dol Guldur. I just decided that this would be how the Silvan folk called it.  
(10) The Entwives. And no, I did not made up the fact that they once lived where the Brown Lands were in the Third Age.  
(11) We don't know a thing about that, of course. But it could have been.  
(12) Yavanna.  
(13) I named the special corn of which lembas is made suncorn, for lack of a better name. Suggestions are welcome.  
(14) Earlier, rejected name for Rauros.  
(15) One of the Lórien extras from the movie (in Haldir's group).  
(16) Says Michael Martinez in his article about the food eaten in Middle-earth, ''Pasta la feasta, baby!''  
(17) Quoted from ''The Treason of Isengard''. It was part of an early draft of LOTR, where the Kings had swords in their hands instead of axes. Of course, the statues could only be a precognitive vision at that time, having been made almost 700 years later.  
(18) Earlier name for the Pillars of Argonath - which were as-yet nonexistent at this time.


	14. Chapter 10: The South Haven

**INNOCENCE**

by Soledad

Disclaimer:

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only Erestor's family and Haldir's sister belong to me.

Rating: PG for this chapter.

Please read Warnings before the Prologue.

**Author's Notes:**

For those who got confused by the journey chronologically (and I certainly am one of those people), not to mention the ones who just _love_ to get nitpicky, here is a short timetable. Especially because it won't be described in loving detail in the story itself. Feel free to skip it. And no, I _really_ don't care if I have miscalculated with one day or two, so don't bother me with maths, please.

start from Lothlórien: 12th _lairë_;

arrival at the Rapids: 26th _lairë_;

- transit: 2 days;

starting again after the Rapids: 28th _lairë_;

arrival in Pelargir: 48th _lairë_ (remember, the summer season had 72 days!);

- short break in Pelargir: 2 days;

getting around Tol Ondren (= the later Dol Amroth): 70th _lairë_;

arrival in Edhellond: 71st _lairë_, so basically they had three days to rest before the Autumn Festival.

Haldir's ''baby sister'' has the same name as the eldest of the Entwives – for obvious reasons. She is married to Ilverin, another Nandor Elf, and lives in a small forest settlement called Calenbel (another rejected name for Parth Galen, that I borrowed from the HoMe books). If you want a visual, she actually is one of the ladies of Lórien from the movie, called Uruviel, but I found that name weird and re-christened her. g

Some of the Elven food was inspired by Tyellas' very appetizing vignette ''The Bread of the Mírdain''. I tried not to directly steal anything, though.

**CHAPTER 10: THE SOUTH HAVEN**

[The 73rd day of _lairë_, in the year 641 of the Third Age]

The setting sun sent long, slanted rays through the delicate grating of the branches, painting an intricate pattern of shadows on the high wall of the small orchard adjoining Gildor Inglorion's house. Even the shortening days of near-autumn lasted longer here in the far South, and Erestor thoroughly enjoyed the lazy warmth of a golden evening.

It was very interesting – almost a revelation, in fact – to see Gildor in his own home. Instead of a palace worthy of his high birth, the proud Noldorin Prince had a homestead not unlike many others owned by his subjects, containing a well-built but simple two-story house, a walled courtyard, a garden with a fountain adjoining the orchard and a meadow behind the stables where his horses were kept. Beyond the meadow, there even was a small wood that, too, belonged to him, and he owned a herd of cattle as well- domesticated white kine, descended from the famous wild oxen of the South.

Not having inherited his father's and grandfather's talent in stone-carving, Gildor only had one small workshop in his house, and he only worked with horn, bone or _múmak_ ivory imported through southern merchants from Harad. But that was a mere pastime for him, and he usually gave away everything he made, delighting chiefly in horse-breeding whenever he spent a long time at home.

After the long journey on water, Erestor was relieved to have firm ground under his feet once again.  As much as the Sea fascinated him, never having been near to it before, he found life in a haven even more interesting, with all the fisheries and mills and warehouses, and the workshops of the furriers, tanners, weavers, sailmakers, rope-makers, barrel-makers, coopers, net-makers and other representatives of excellent Elven craftsmanship.

Though Edhellond could not be compared to Círdan's Havens, not by importance, nor by sheer size, it _was_ a busy port and a well-organized one, and as the son of an artisan, Erestor found great delight in getting familiar with it.  The harbour itself was never empty, ships from Gondor laying at the quays mostly, but at times even Círdan's people sailed down south to trade with the folk of Edhellond, and the fisherboats were dependent on the signals of the high and slender light-tower standing far out in the Sea itself, approachable by boat only.

It was a place brimming with life, and Erestor loved it, the more so that he was _not_ the one expected to keep things running smoothly. He was a guest now, deserving and ready to be spoiled after his long, laborious years in Imladris.

Due to the fact that it lay in an especially well-protected corner of the coastal region, Edhellond's climate proved to be surprisingly mild. So mild, indeed, that the most intriguingly exotic fruits grew with little or no tending in Gildor's orchard, fruits that could not be found even in the warmest spots of Gondor: grapes as long and thick as a man's thumb; peaches the size of a fist; pomegranates; figs that were red in the inside and as sweet as a kiss; and even oranges – something he had never seen before in his life.

There were, of course, more common sorts of fruit as well: golden apples, ruddy pears, red plums and many others. To Erestor it was a foretaste of Yavanna's gardens in the Blessed Realm, and honestly, he had a hard time understanding why Gildor would ever feel the need to leave this perfect place at all.

Quiet voices interrupted his musings, and peering through the arched opening in the orchard's stone wall, he saw the object of his thoughts crossing the adjoining garden, in the company of a small, fragile-looking Elven woman who wore a simple, pale blue gown and had long, ash blonde hair. Erestor recognized her as Fimbrethil(1), the ''baby sister'' of Rúmil.

''Erestor,'' Gildor greeted him with a nod, ''I presume you know the Lady Fimbrethil, do you not? She has just arrived from her home in Calenbel to partake in our Autumn Festival tomorrow.''

''Of course he knows me!'' Fimbrethil laughed, giving the somewhat embarrassed Erestor a quick hug; the Green-Elves were less shy in showing their feelings than the Noldor. 

''How are you faring, Erestor? It has been too long.''

''Indeed, it has,'' Erestor replied, recovering from his surprise. ''I am faring well, thank you. How about your lovely self?''

''Flattery shall get you no-where, you know that,'' Fimbrethil answered smiling; ''yet we are fine, thank the Valar: my husband, both our children and several thousands of honey-bees all are in best health and so am I. Honey-making is healthy work, it seems. Now... where is that wayward brother of mine?''

''Guiding a certain female archer named Calaglinel through the taverns of the harbour, most likely,'' said Gildor with a grin. Fimbrethil raised a fine golden eyebrow.

''_Calaglinel_? My brother seems to have a death wish. That woman is known as the Iron Maiden of the Golden Wood.''

''I know not,'' replied Erestor with a shrug; ''she seemed... molten enough during our journey, at least when Rúmil was in her company.''

Fimbrethil shook her head in utter disbelief.

''My brother must have hidden charms unknown to any one. I never thought I would live to say the day when Calaglinel warmed up to _any_ one, the least to Rhimbron. The ways of Ilúvatar are wondrous, indeed. Well, since my brother is not available but Erestor is, would you mind, my Lord, if I stayed here a while to wring all the news out of him?''

''Not the least, my fair Lady,'' Gildor answered with a slight, playful bow. ''I have to look after the horses anyway. We shall see each other in the Dining Hall later in the evening.''

With that he left, and Fimbrethil and Erestor talked til the dinner bells rang; about Imladris and Lothlórien and the life in Edhellond; about Haldir and Fíriel and their hard choices; about her husband, Ilverin and their children, both of them still very young elflings, too young, indeed, to partake the Autumn Festival, and that she wanted to have more children; about working with bees and making honey-cakes; and, last but not least, about the noble, proud and sometimes infuriating Lord of Edhellond.

It was of little surprise for Erestor to detect the love and loyalty Gildor was given by his people. He had always known that Gildor was a born ruler, one that earned respect not only by his high birth alone but also by his deeds and wisdom. What _did_ surprise him, though, was the way how the grandson of Finrod obviously ruled his small realm.

One would have expected that someone with Gildor's hard and more than a little haughty nature would rule with an iron fist: justly but mercilessly towards even the smallest of mistakes, unmoved by any sort of compassion.

Yet that obviously was a prejudiced imagination on his side. It seemed that Edhellond was practically run by a council, containing the most respected members of the settled population, while the Wandering Company – and even Gildor himself – were more like honoured guests in their own home. Sure, the important decisions had to be signed by Gildor, and his opinion was very much asked for and highly respected, but – unless it came to questions of trade or defense – he simply let his councillors decide, saying that they were more able to oversee everyday business, since they lived there permanently.

Also, though most of Edhellond's population belonged to the Silvan or the Nandorin folk (save some of the best craftsmen- and women of the harbour itself), they seemed extremely proud of their Lord. Gildor might not have been _called_ a King, but he most certainly was _considered_ one by his own people. And though Lindir had refused to be adopted by him, his true identity was well-known in Edhellond, and people treated him as Gildor's heir nevertheless.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

This became more obvious than ever on the next eve, when the Lord of Edhellond officially opened the Autumn Festival. There was a great feast, held on the Place of Dance, between the harbour and the living area of the town. Long tables were placed under the circle of huge, ever-green trees, hundreds and hundreds of years old, brought there as saplings before the Fall of Númenórë. They had come from the West, Tol Eressëa namely.

Their names were in all the old songs of Elves and Men and sounded like songs or words of enchantment themselves: _oiolairë_ and _lairelossë_, _nessamelda_, _vardarianna_, _taniquelassë_ and _yavannamirë_. The latter had globed, scarlet fruits, sweeter than any other fruit that even the Elves born in Valinor had known. Flower, leaf and rind of these trees exuded sweet scent, and the whole place was full of their blended fragrance. They had been called _nísimalder_ in fallen Númenórë, the Fragrant Trees(2), and no-where did they grow and flower east from the Sea but in the wondrously unique climate of Edhellond, even if they never reached the same height and girth here as they would have in Eldamar, in spite of the loving care that a specially selected group of Silvan women gave them.

Still, the Fragrant Trees were the pride and joy of the whole town, and even more so the only _mallorn_ known to exist outside the Golden Wood. Under this very tree, smaller than those in Lothlórien where the very ground was enchanted, yet still a majestic sight, was set the high chair of Gildor, and on his side, in the absence of the Lady Aquiel, Lindir was seated, looking around at the colorful crowd in youthful excitement and talking to Gildor in Quenya, which was their mother tongue(3).

The Lord of Edhellond was clad in a simple silver tunic and a dark blue robe, his golden hair unbraided and unadorned, save the crown of autumn leaves upon his brow – for this was a festival of the Silvan folk and he respected the customs of those who had chosen  him to be their Lord. Lindir had been given similar clothes, only that his tunic had the colour of gold and his hair was much paler. Still, they looked every bit the close kindred that they actually were, and Erestor's good mood was gone all of a sudden, for never had Lindir's royal birth been more obvious, and he was overcome with grief by the thought that one day the youngling might decide that he would like to live in this wondrous little town after all.

For Edhellond _was_ a wonder on its own, no doubt. It had everything an Elf could want: the Sea, ancient trees out of legends, music and dance, knowledge and craftsmanship and a much more interesting life than Imladris would ever hold. Who could blame Lindir if he chose to stay with his uncle?

Gildor rose from his chair, opening the festivities with the time-honoured words that were brought by his people from Doriath and other ancient woodland realms, and the servants began to bring the traditional food to the tables. As it has been the custom since the Elder Days, the new bread, made from the first harvest of the new corn, had been brought to Gildor first, to bless it and break it ere it was served to the guests.

Aside of the traditional fair white loaves there also was heavy, honeyed rye and seeded flat-bread, with rounded chunks of snow-white butter and salty, yellow cheese, both made from the milk of the white kine and tasting differently than what Erestor was used to from home.  Differently, but not less good; in fact, they had a wild, fresh fragrance that common butter and cheese lacked(4).

There was a great deal of sea-food, of course:  fish and eels and lobsters and oysters, sauces based on fish or mollusks, roasted sea-birds and salads of sea-plants.  But most of the food came from the gardens and orchards of the town itself, especially the herbs and the fruits, and most of the biscuits and seed-cakes were covered with honey and strewn with strange spices, brought in from Harad or other far away countries.

And there were wines, spicy white and sweet red wines, and mead and dark ale, of course, and fragrant cordials that looked clear like spring water but had a hidden strength that could make the strongest Man dizzy. Elves, of course, had a higher tolerance for their own beverages, but spirits heightened during the feast nevertheless.

After everyone had eaten his fill, the tables were removed and the minstrels came to entertain the guests with old lays and ballads. Orgof was first, as always, singing the oldest version of the Lay of Leithian in the tongue of the Green-Elves, and every one listened enraptured to the sound of his strong, clear voice, contemplating the lovely vision of Lúthien Tinúviel singing and dancing on the bank of the enchanted River Esgalduin.

Nuinor and other minstrels from the Wandering Company followed, for the settled folk of Edhellond had only lesser musicians, who could not make songs of their own, but were cherished nevertheless; then Lindir was asked to perform for his host. The youngling hesitated first, apologizing that he was no Master Singer yet, but after some encouragement from the other minstrels and to the special request of Gildor himself he finally brought forth the beautiful harp that had been made for him in Lothlórien, following the earlier orders of the Lord Celeborn, and said:

''As I have no song yet that I could call my own, I shall sing you a strange one that I was given in a vision during our journey here. I know not the tongue of this song, nor the meaning of it, but as I was told to share it with other Elves, that is what I shall do now.''

He let his slender fingers glide along the silver strings of the harp and raised his sweet voice a little, barely enough to overcome the whispering of the South Wind among the leaves of the Fragrant Trees. The words came from afar upon his lips – strange words, ringing like glittering swords hitting each other; murmuring like the waves of the Sea rolling against the shores; flowing like the falling water from the silver basin of a fountain – the words of the secret tongue of Valinor, that he had never been taught.

And yet, what he saw, and what his gift as a minstrel was showing his audience, was not the frightening vision in which he had heard this particular song before – if, in fact, it _was_ the same song at all. It _did_ feel the same, yet there was no way to be sure of that.

It seemed to him that he was on an island beleaguered by the Sea, and he turned his mind to the mountains, desiring to come to the heart of that forbidden kingdom. As he wandered towards the far-away peaks, he was overtaken by a grey mist and strayed long at a loss, until the mist rolled away like an endless wave, and he found that he was in a wide plain. Far off there was a great hill of shadow, and out of that shadow, which was its root, he saw the King's Tree springing up, tower upon tower, into the sky, and its light was like the sun at noon; and it bore at once leaves and flowers and fruits uncounted, and not one was the same as any other that grew on that Tree(5).

Nevertheless, upon all those entwined twigs of the three major branches, most of the fruits were faded and only a few of them seemed full of light and juice and colour – one on the first one branch, four on the middle one and four on the third one, all high up at the end of thinning twigs, nowhere near the tree-trunk. And the one highest at the end of the third branch was not even fully ripe yet, hiding shyly among the protecting leaves.

Then, all of a sudden, a strong Wind came up from the East, shaking the Tree violently and stripping it from many of its leaves. Two of the fruits on the second branch broke down and fell, and the small, unripe one on the very end of the third branch shivered and nearly fell as well. But one of the remaining leaves bent over it, covering it from the onslaught safely, and finally the East Wind gave up and turned away, sweeping with a shrill whistle towards the North.

Lindir finished his song, troubled and a little shaken himself, for the vision frightened him for some reason. As he looked around, he saw with surprise tears in the eyes of many from his audience. He could not even guess what this strange vision was about, yet it seemed to touch something deep in the hearts of everyone there – and the thoughtful expression on Gildor's face told him that the Lord of Edhellond might have understood more of it than any one else.

The strange mood was broken when the lesser musicians came with harps and flutes, to make sweet, swift music for the dance to begin. Gildor rose with his usual grace to lead his folk to the dance, pulling Lindir to his feet, and soon the whole crowd was lining up behind him, moving with the weightless elegance of windswept leaves, first in a great circle, symbolizing the ever-renewed cycle of seasons, then forming infinite, winding lines that returned into themselves in seemingly endless, delicate patterns, so that no one of the dancers knew whom they would face next, smiling and laughing and nodding their greetings, ducking under the clasped hands and raised arms of another in-twining line of dancers, whirling around and leaping lightly aside, in order to avoid bumping into each other, which caused even more laughter and merry jokes.

Erestor was in no mood for dancing, but he had been pulled in by some friends from the Wandering Company, and was now slowly getting into the spirit of the festivities. So he danced with the others til darkness fell and the stars blinked to bright life upon the dark, velvet sky above their heads. And in the silver starlight, when the swift rhythm of the dance slowed to calmer, more contemplative waves, so that the dancers could watch the dance of stars above, he suddenly found himself face-to-face with Gildor.

Their eyes met for an endless moment, and Erestor had the feeling as if thin daggers, cold and very sharp, had been rammed into his heart, into his very _fëa_. Then the Elf-Lord unexpectedly slid free from the grip of his dance-partners and grabbed Erestor's arm, pulling him, too, free from the rhythmically pulsing mass of dancing bodies.

''Give me a moment of your time, will you?''

''As you wish, my Lord.'' There was no use protesting – the fingers on his arm were like iron clamps, and Gildor was already leading him away from the merriment, so he might as well go with him voluntarily.

They ended up under the _mallorn_, where Gildor took his own seat and Erestor took the one at his side that had been Lindir's during the feast. Here, at the opposite end of the large place, the music was not so loud that they could not speak undisturbed.

''I have been planning to speak with you for quite some time,'' the Lord of Edhellond began, ''and, truth be told, I almost fear that I have waited too long. Now, after that vision Lindir had shown us today, I have come to understand that it cannot wait any longer.''

''You know what the meaning of that vision is, my Lord?'' Erestor asked, slightly bewildered, but Gildor shook his head.

''Let us say I can _guess_ what it _might_ be about,'' he answered carefully. ''The future is not a thing carved in stone already – 'tis a possibility that can take very different turns. Yet I believe that it had to say something about my family; and that it was a warning of great perils yet to come.''

'''Tis all about Lindir, is it?'' Erestor asked, suddenly understanding. Gildor nodded.

''Aye, it is. The child is the last descendant of Finarfin's line, and even though he shall never walk the warrior paths of his ancestors, he _is_ of royal blood. I tolerated his choosing to remain in Imladris, where Aquiel can watch over his safety, but I like not him being dragged to the Golden Wood, even if he has proved strong enough to refuse being seduced by Artanis' sorcery.''

Erestor felt his lips tighten to a thin line.

''Forgive me for being blunt, my Lord, but you _have_ agreed to entrust Lindir's care and education to the Lord of Imladris. Now you have to trust his wisdom in this matter.''

''I _have_ to do naught,'' Gildor stated calmly. ''Regardless of my earlier decision, he is of my flesh and my blood. I have the right, by our laws and customs, to change my mind in this matter, and I _shall_ do so, should I see any sign that he is being endangered.''

Erestor opened his mouth to make an insulted answer, but Gildor raised a hand and silenced him with an icy glare.

''I know that you are one of the reasons why he refuses to come and live in Edhellond with his family, though I have repeatedly offered to make him my heir and my people already think of him as such,'' he continued. ''You won his trust at a very young age – I cannot go against _that_. But let him get harmed – nay, let him even get _near_ any harm – and you have seen him for the last time.''

With that, the Lord of Edhellond rose again and returned to the dance, leaving a deeply shaken Erestor behind.

It was well over midnight when Lindir came running and laughing, and collapsed at his side with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. Erestor looked at him with saddened eyes. Never had the young minstrel seemed happier – or more beautiful – than in that very moment.

_Mayhap Gildor had been right, after all_, Erestor thought sadly, feeling the numb pressure of pain in his chest. _Mayhap neither Imladris nor Lothlórien is the place where Lindir was meant to live, but here. This merry town, brimming with life, protected by the Sea and the strongest kingdom of Men, with the harbour and the ships to flee to the West at once, should any new peril arise_.

And in Edhellond were _children_, too, more than in any other Elven realm, save perhaps for Emyn Galen, for the Silvan folk cared less for the past and more for the future than the Noldor, and the ringing laughter of the little or half-grown elflings was a music even more lovely than all the songs of the minstrels. Mayhap Lindir would be happier here than he had ever been in the calm serenity of Imladris...

The touch of a gentle hand upon his face brought him back from the joyless world of his thoughts, and he realized with a jolt that his cheeks were wet. Lindir kneeled before him peering up into his face worriedly.

''Master Erestor? What is wrong?''

''Nothing is wrong, little one,'' he murmured, trying to get himself together ere he frightened the sensitive youngling too much. ''Your uncle and I had a... conversation, and I fear I... became a little upset.''

''I wish he would cease to harass you!'' Lindir said angrily, shifting position so that he could rest his head upon Erestor's knee. ''And he is _not_ my uncle, you know that. We are related from fairly afar.''

''Still, he _is_ the head of Finrod's House,'' Erestor reminded him gently. ''You may refuse to accept it, but by blood, you belong to his family and owe him your allegiance. 'Tis the way of our people. You cannot change it – and neither can I. We both have our obligations towards our people and our family.''

''What did he say to you?'' Lindir asked softly. ''What did he say that frightened you this much? I have never seen you in tears before, save from your nightmares.''

''He threatened to take you from me – from us all – should any harm befall you,'' Erestor answered simply.  Lindir leapt to his feet, his gentle eyes burning with fierce anger.

''He cannot do that!''

''He can – and he will, should we give him any reason to do so,'' Erestor sighed. ''Understand this, Lindir: you only can remain in Imladris by his leave. As the head of your true family, he is responsible for your welfare, and it seems that he takes his responsibility very seriously. If he deems that you might be harmed in Imladris or Lothlórien or wherever one of us happens to take you, he can demand that you be sent to Edhellond and live under his own roof. 'Tis his _right_, and our Lord could not refuse.''

''Why does no-one care for what _I want_?'' Lindir demanded angrily. ''Why does everybody believe they know better than I what is good for me? I am no little elfling any longer!''

''True,'' Erestor nodded, ''yet you still _are_ under-aged, little one... at least by the letter of Noldorin law. You should try to prove to our Lord that you are mature enough to be considered an adult if you want to become the master of your own fate.''

The angelic face of the youngling tensed all over as his innocent mind tried to gasp the elusive concept of adulthood the Lord Elrond seemed to keep in such high esteem. Lindir certainly was no fool – in fact, he had gained an impressive amount of knowledge in music, ancient history and herbal lore during all those hundreds of years spent in Imladris – yet the necessity of certain social skills was still far beyond his understanding. Erestor began to believe that the Lady Celebrían was right – that Lindir, in certain things, would always remain a child.

Lindir must have come to the same conclusion, for he dropped to the ground again, all joy and merriment vanished from his young face.

''I shall never be good enough for our Lord,'' he said forlornly. ''Nor do I truly wish to be one of the Lords of Imladris, like Glorfindel or you. I only wish to be left alone – with my books, and my music, and my healing herbs – and you.''

''A short time, and you shall not be in need of my tutoring any more, little one,'' Erestor smiled, though his chest was tightening with pain at this thought once more. ''You will be your own Elf, and no one will make you do anything you do not want to do.''

''Not even Gildor?'' Lindir asked. ''He cannot make me come here and live with him then?''

''Not even him,'' Erestor assured. ''But do you not like the life in Edhellond? 'Tis a wonderful place to live.''

''It is,'' Lindir admitted, ''but I fear Gildor would not let you come with me; nor would the Lord Elrond allow you to leave Imladris for my sake. You are needed back home.''

'''Tis true, too'', Erestor nodded; ''yet, as I already said, you shall not need me much longer. You are nearly mature now.''

Lindir looked up to him with darkening, almost angry eyes.

''I shall always need you. _Always_. Even if I lived as long as Glorfindel and returned from the dead I could never be without you.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

This declaration, given with the full earnestness of a young and pure heart, frightened Erestor more than a little, and they never spoke of this again during all the long and surprisingly mild winter – which, in fact, rather reminded Erestor of the spring season in the North. They spent merry, eventful days in Edhellond, sometimes in the harbour itself, visiting shops and taverns and the ships that lay along the quays, sometimes sailing out to the Sea with the fisher's barges, sometimes visiting the many different homesteads, for they had been invited by practically every family that was somehow related to someone from the Wandering Company, and to a few others as well, for Lindir had become very popular among Gildor's people.

In the middle of _hrívië_ they went with Rúmil and his new lover to Calenbel, to visit Fimbrethil and her family for quite a few days, helping Ilverin with the honey-bees and other animals and playing with their children – which was something that Lindir especially enjoyed greatly, since the young elflings expected no ''appropriate behaviour'' from him. He even stayed in the tree-houses with the children, teaching them how to talk to the birds and let his days roll away from him in the carefree manner of a child himself.

Erestor, too, appreciated the peace of Fimbrethil's home. It was good to breathe freely again after the overwhelming presence of Gildor under his own roof. The Nandorin woman might be ill-versed in ancient lore, but she possessed the far-seeing, natural wisdom of her people, and a quiet inner strength that Erestor had only seen in her mother before her. Though half-Nandor by blood, Fimbrethil could have easily become one of the Wise Women of the Silvan folk, had she not chosen to come here and marry into her father's people. Still, she was more than able to keep her family and her household in a tight but gentle hand and even put the admittedly not always pleasant-mannered Calaglinel to her place.

''I like her not,'' she admitted bluntly to Erestor's carefully-formulated question. ''But Rhimbron seems very much in love with her, and I believe they could make an acceptable couple. We shall see. She will need a long time yet ere she can accept a true bond, but what else can you accept from someone who was raised by Orcs?''

Seeing Erestor's shocked look she nodded softly and added, ''She was captured early in the Second Age, during the war between Sauron and our people, when the great forests of Eriador had been destroyed. She was but a little elfling back then, and no-one knows why the Orcs let her live instead of eating her, as is their custom. But she lived with them for years, and when she was found by the Lord Celeborn's warriors, she was like a wild animal and only knew the Black Speech.''

She paused again, her eyes clouded with sadness, then she continued.

''I know you dislike the Lady Galadriel just as much as my brothers do, or even more, and for your part, you might have a reason for it. But she _did_ save Calaglinel's life and her sanity, caring for her like for a daughter, healing her and teaching her to became a tolerable Elf. Mother says it took the Lady hundreds of years to reach what could be reached at all. And for Rhimbron's sake, I am grateful that she did. 'Tis time for my brothers to settle down with someone. Now that Hathaldir, too, has made his choice, however hard and unusual it is, we only need Orfin to find a mate, so that we become a family again, instead of a bunch of lonely, fatherless Elves.''

Erestor could understand their wish for normal family life. The Silvan Elves suffered unspeakably during the war against Sauron in the Second Age, losing not only their beloved forests but many of their loved ones as well, and the uncertain fate of Malgalad had haunted his children til the present day. Not that they were less brave and valiant than the Noldor, for they were the best archers that Middle-earth had ever seen, but their weapons were no match for the heavy blades and axes of Sauron's minions, and their homes a lot more vulnerable than the stone cities of the Eldar.

_And yet, even the beautifully hewn and carved stones could not protect Ost-in-Edhil from the back wave of Sauron's armies_, Erestor thought sadly. Betrayal, if unconsciously, came from the very heart of Eregion's chief city, and it was burnt to the ground and her Lord murdered by slow torture in his own house. Only a handful people from that once-beautiful city, as full of life as Edhellond was now, had survived – among them, by the grace of the Lord Elrond, the firstborn son of Hargil, the Jewel-Smith.

Now, after more than two thousand years, Erestor was less sure than he was grateful for his rescue than he used to be. No matter how much Elrond and his family cared for him, in the end he had no one to whom he could truly belong.

At the end he was utterly, hopelessly alone.

Tutoring Lindir had brought a light into his life that had not been there before. It was almost as if he had something akin to a family on his own. But the head of Lindir's true family, the proud and stern Lord of the South Haven, hated him for having survived the sack of Ost-in-Edhil while Celebrimbor had not, and waited only for the slightest mistake on his part to take his young charge from him.

Erestor knew that it would be too much for him to bear. He had to be very, very careful not to raise Gildor's cold wrath against himself. Before Lindir had come into his life, he had never known how dull and joyless it had been. But now that he had known this bright light that lit up his every day, losing it would have been more than he could endure. He had to be careful.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End notes:**

(1) Means ''thin birch'' in Sindarin, according to Robert Foster.

(2) See: ''A Brief Description of Númenor'' in The Unfinished Tales.  The Fragrant Trees growing in Edhellond is, of course, my imagination only.

(3) Both Gildor's parents lived in Valinor and had spent mere decades in Middle-earth, according to my stories.  Quenya is still the language spoken by the Elves of Valinor, so it was evident for me that Inglor and Aratari would taught it their children first.

(4) In Transsylvania (where I spent my childhood), butter and cheese still often are made from the milk of buffaloes. The butter is very, very white, is often formed in great, round chunks, and has a uniquely fresh taste. I got carried away by childhood memories a little. Sorry.

(5) Loosely quoted after a paragraph from ''Smith of Wootton Major'' by JRR Tolkien.


	15. Interlude3: In the Golden Wood

**Innocence**

by Soledad

**Disclaimer:**

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only Haldir and Erestor's families belong to me (with the exception of Rúmil and Orophin, of course).

**Rating: G, for this chapter. At least I hope so.**

Please read Warnings before the Prologue.

**Dedication: this one is for Finch, who wanted to know…**

**Author's Notes:**

This Interlude was no more foreseen than the other ones. Originally, I planned a big time loop after Chapter 10, continuing the main storyline in Imladris. But I realized that there still were some loose ends in Lórien that I needed to tie up ere I go on. So, this Interlude features mainly Haldir and Fíriel and how they deal with the consequences of their choice. King Amroth, Haldir's mother and his siblings will have cameos, as well as the Rivendell Elves who still tarry in Lórien.

JastaElf, I hope this little Interlude answers at least some of your questions. Oh, and Legolas has very much been born by now. He's about the same age as King Amroth (who's a cousin second grade of him, by the way), but won't have an appearance until chapter 15.

Once again, many thanks to Isabeau of Greenlea for beta-reading. For the weird formatting is neither of us responsible. It happens while the file is being converted for ff.net's use.

INTERLUDE IN THE GOLDEN WOOD 

[The 29th day of _lairë_, in the year 642 of the Third Age]

The boat trip to Edhellond and back had taken more than a full round of the Sun, and the visit in Gildor's realm took unexpected turns in Erestor's life – he knew he would have think over those events, long and hard, once they returned to Imladris(1).

In truth, he _wanted_ to return home. He had never been away from Elrond's peaceful, hidden valley for this long before, and craved its serenity and beauty. Edhellond had been a marvelous place, and the enchanted woods of Lothlórien a wonder in and of themselves, but Imladris was _home_. The only one he had known for thousands of years. And as much as he liked spending some time with Lindir and Haldir's family, he missed Elrond, whom he still saw as a substitute father, even after all the time he lived under the Lord of Imladris' roof as an adult.

He had not seen much of Lindir since they came back from the South, of course. When the youngling was not with the Lord Celeborn, who was tutoring him in the use of the highly rare gift of reading other people's hearts, he wandered around in the woods with the minstrels of the Galadhrim or simply disappeared high up in some obscure tree to continue his endless conversation with visiting birds. Erestor suspected that Lindir was trying to find out the whereabouts of Aiwendil, not having seen the old wizard for a very long time. Having spent a lengthy time with Gildor must have stirred the youngling's well-buried longing for family – and for him, family still meant Aiwendil to a certain extent.

But other than that, Lindir seemed fairly content and just as ready to return to Imladris as Erestor was.  In fact, Elladan was getting restless himself, missing sorely his home – and more than anything else his twin – for never had he been separated from Elrohir for more than a few days, and he clearly liked it not. His recently-found closeness with Orophin was not enough of a distraction to keep him in Lothlórien any more(2).

'''Tis as if part of my soul is missing,'' he confessed to Erestor, sitting with him on the river bank, just outside of Caras Galadhon. ''I know not how others can live their lives without such a tight bond.''

''We never knew aught else,'' Erestor shrugged, ''so we cannot miss it. Have you ever thought of the chance that your Final Choice might be different?''

''Often,'' Elladan admitted, ''and it frightens me greatly. I have so much from my mortal sires in me, Erestor, and Elrohir so little! He is more like the Lord Celeborn than any one of our family; more than even Mother. Small wonder that he is closer to Mother than I am. Just as Arwen has this great likeness to Father.''

''And whose likeness do _you_ bear?'', Erestor asked, smiling, surprised that Elladan chose to share his inner thoughts with him. 'Twas not something that happened often. Elladan was the most solitary one of Elrond's children, never speaking much of himself even during that short time when the two of them had been lovers.

Elladan returned his smile with a sad one of his own.

''I know not. I fancy myself thinking that I might be like my mortal sires, Beren or Tuor, but in the end I know I am not. I am too much of an Elf for that – and yet not Elf enough to be like the rest of my family. I stand out like a dark horse from Father's herd.''

''Have you ever heard the oldest Lay of Leithian, sung in Nandorin by Master Singer Orgof?'' Erestor asked. When Elladan shook his head, he added: ''Next time Gildor's people visit Imladris, you should ask him to sing it to you. For – alone of all the minstrels still alive – he has _seen_ the events he is singing of with his own eyes, and this way you could see that there was _one_ among your sires whom you look, indeed, very much alike, both in face _and_ in temper.''

''And who might that be?'' Elladan asked, clearly intrigued.

''No less than Dior Eluchíl, the son of Lúthien and Beren,'' Erestor said.

''You have to be jesting!'' Elladan laughed. ''Dior is said to have been the fairest in face and stature among both kins of the Children of Ilúvatar!''

''He was,'' Erestor agreed, ''at least whenever he was wearing the _Nauglamír_. But without it, he very much looked like you do, if we may believe Orgof's memories. Why are you so surprised? You are only three generations removed.''

''So I only need a magic piece of Dwarven jewelry to become fair enough for an average Elf,'' Elladan laughed, but the sadness left not his grey eyes. Erestor shook his head in exasperation. Obviously, Elladan was having one of _those_ days again. They came not frequently, but they could poison his mood for weeks.

''You are hopeless,'' he said, just a little annoyed. ''Now tell me: when are we leaving for Imladris? I am quite eager to get home.''

''And so am I,'' Elladan replied, sobering, ''but 'tis not entirely my decision. We have to wait for King Amroth's return from Eryn Galen, to see how he decides about Haldir and Fíriel's fate. I cannot leave her here to Amroth's mercy ere I know whether she would be welcome to stay... after what happened. Father would have my head if I did.''

Erestor nodded slowly, knowing how very true Elladan's words were. Coming back from the South, just to find that in their absence Fíriel had given birth to a child, sired by Haldir, was quite a shock for him. A spontaneous conception was rare for Elves, for it usually needed a conscious act of will from both parents, but again, it happened rarely that an Elf would have been able to soul-bond with a second mate as Fíriel did with Haldir. It took an overwhelming passion to create a new life spontaneously, but then it was obvious enough for any one with eyes that Haldir and Fíriel _did_ share such a passion – one strong enough to build a shared life upon (3).

The Silvan folk of Lothlórien accepted the newcomer without much discussion, for they shared not the narrow-mindedness that was the curse of many Noldor, either on Middle-earth or beyond the Sea. The small community of Nandor Elves – living, with a few exceptions, under Amroth's rule – greeted the new life in their midst with great joy, for they considered Haldir's family as their own people, despite the lady Gwenethlin's purely Silvan heritage. The few Noldor living in Caras Galadhon, though, and especially the Lady's guard of mixed Noldorin-Silvan descent, saw in the innocent child an abomination and called Fíriel a faithless whore. _Not_ for having taken a new lover after the brutal death of her first family, but because she bound with him and gave him a child.

So, one could not be perfectly sure that Amroth, being the last member of a long line of Sindarin Princes (even though his mother had been of the Silvan folk) would protect Haldir and his new family, or even allow them to remain in his realm any longer. If the young King truly wanted to wed the Lady Undómiel – and rumors said that they _had_ come to some sort of an understanding while Erestor visited Edhellond – he might be willing to sacrifice his chief counsellor, in order to keep the balance of power between the two Lórien realms. For it was questionable whether the Lady Galadriel would support the idea of her only granddaughter living in a court where the letter of the high and mighty Noldorin law was being deliberately ignored.

'Twas never easy to guess what Galadriel would do, and as much as Amroth despised her for taking over half of his kingdom and his old home, she was a power in the Golden Wood that had to be counted. Small wonder that Haldir waited anxiously for the return of his king, who was visiting his kinsman, Thranduil of Eryn Galen. Not that he doubted the honesty of Amroth's friendship – but he was sober enough to know that sometimes people were given up for the sake of whole kingdoms.

Fíriel on the other hand seemed to grow facing the unspoken hostility emanating towards her from Caras Galadhon. She was not young, not even by Elven standards, and had learnt to take what fate gave her. She refused to hide in shame, for – in spite of being a pure-blooded Noldo – she found nothing shameful in her love for Haldir, and was proud of her sweet little son, whom – in a fit of utter defiance – she had named _Malgalad_, after Haldir's father, and the Nandorim loved her for that with the fierce loyalty that is so typical for their kindred.

Rarely did an Elven woman give birth to a child at Fíriel's age; not that it would have been a risk for them (as it would be for mortal women after the passing of their youth), but it was not customary. Had it not been for the War of the Jewels in the First Age, Fíriel most likely would have gone to the West by now, with her children and grandchildren and their children. But after having lost her first family to the cruel sons of Fëanor, fate had her a second chance, and she was determined to make the best of it.

''I will not allow the foolish law of the Noldor to take from me him who is soul-bound to me, or our child,''she stated to Arwen, with that stubborn look at her face that told all those that knew her that this was her last word in this. ''In fact, I want to have another child with Hathaldir, once this one is grown. Mayhap even more.''

''And should King Amroth think us to be a hindrance to his rule, we are ready to leave Lothlórien,'' Haldir added quietly. ''I received a message from Eryn Galen, thanks to some friendly birds. King Thranduil offered to take us into his service, in case we cannot stay here. A good archer and a master healer are always welcome in his halls.''

''So you are willing to go in exile?'' Arwen asked Fíriel. The older woman shrugged.

''I doubt that _your_ father would welcome us in Imladris, Lady Undómiel. We have been close friends for a long time, but he has to consider the Lady Galadriel's opinion, even more than young King Amroth does, and I wish not to force him to make that choice. So, aye, I am willing to go anywhere where people try not to force us apart in the name of some obscure ancient law that keeps rules in higher esteem than lives and the love of two souls that are bound to each other.''

''Is then love worthy of giving up everything for it?'' Arwen asked thoughtfully. ''To throw away your whole life, all that you have been tied to for so long?''

''If 'tis true love, then it _is_ worth of any price you are willing to pay for it,'' Fíriel answered solemnly. ''Mayhap one day you _will_ understand this, young one. Mayhap one day you, too, _will_ be asked to give up everything for _one_ person – and mayhap you will do so, gladly.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And thus tempers were running rather high when on the eve ot the 30th _lairë_ King Amroth and his escort finally returned from the realm of their northern kindred. The young King was grim-faced when he rode in, and after having greeted his folk that had gathered in great numbers to welcome him, he asked them to leave him alone with his household, promising them a feast on the next eve, and that on that feast all tidings would be shared.

''I am in dire need of a bath and some rest'', he then said, when the crowd had been gone, ''but I wish to speak you right after sunset, Hathaldir. You and your entire family, for 'tis a matter that concerns you all. Has your mother returned to us already?''

''Aye, my King. She came home shortly after you have left.''

''Ask her to come, too. According to Silvan custom, she _is_ the head of your family, and her word shall be heard ere I make my decision.''

''As you wish, my King. I shall call her at once.''

''And you,'' King Amroth turned to Erestor, ''I wish to be present as well. You belong to Elrond's family, yet not by blood, so I choose you as an impartial witness. Will you do this for me and your friend Hathaldir? I know there is no great love between you and the Lady Fíriel.''

''That is true,'' Erestor admitted, ''yet I respect her nevertheless. She was like a foster mother to me, even though a harsh one, and I wish her happiness. She deserves it. She has suffered enough.''

''In truth, she has,'' Amroth sighed. ''I fear this shall be a hard decision, my friend, regardless of all the counsel my kinsman King Thranduil has offered during my stay in his halls. For however I decide, someone will be unhappy with it.''

'''Tis nearly always so when one has to choose between the letter of law and people's lives,'' said Erestor quietly, and the young King nodded in agreement.

''True. Yet someone has to make the hard decisions, and I have not accepted the burdens of kingship to hide from them. Now, do tell me ere I go for a short rest: how has your long journey been?''

''Most amazing,'' Erestor answered. ''I have messages for you, my King, from Gildor Inglorion and several of his people. Rúmil... I mean Rhimbron has taken them to your study.''

Amroth nodded absently and gave him a wry look.

''What happened? You did not go all stiff and defensive when speaking Gildor's name. Have the two of you become friends down in the South?''

''Nay, my Lord,'' Erestor shook his head with a rueful grin, ''and I doubt that we ever would. But we have... settled our issues.''

''Have you?'' Amroth gave him the royal eyebrow. ''Now _that_ is a tale I would _love_ to hear. But alas, somehow I have the feeling that you would not be willing to tell it. Ever.''

''Indeed, my Lord, I would rather not.''

''I thought so. Well then, we shall meet again after sunset, up in my house.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The sun had barely set when Haldir's family gathered in the great hall of King Amroth's house, high up in the royal _mallorn_. Aside of the Lady Gwenethlin and her sons, there was Fíriel with the baby, of course, and, surprisingly, Calaglinel as well, though she dwelt in Caras Galadhon and served the Lady of the Wood. But her closeness with Rúmil had grown enough during their journey to the South for her to be included into family matters, and _this_ certainly was one.

Erestor came as a witness, having been invited by the King himself, and Lindir followed him silently, like a ghost, hoping that he would not be sent away. Fíriel had been his tutor in herbal lore, and he respected her greatly and wished her from his heart some well-deserved happiness.

Finally, the King came in, in the company of the Lady Arwen, wearing the usual silvery-green garb of his people. Arwen, too, wore the unadorned, soft grey garment of the Galadrim, and looked unusually grave for her young age. Amroth seemed less than well-rested, his fair face grim and determined.

''Thank you all for coming in such short a time,'' he said. ''We shall speak openly of this, for the issue needs to be settled as soon as it can be done. So forgive me if I might speak bluntly. We are dealing with the laws and customs of two different peoples here, and it may not be easy to find a way to satisfy all sides involved. Lady Fíriel, is it your will to remain with your chosen one, regardless of what your own people might say about it?''

''Aye, my Lord King, it is,'' Fíriel answered in a steady voice.

''Do you understand that it means you might become an outcast among your people for breaking Noldorin law?'' Amroth continued.

''I do,'' Fíriel replied, ''and I care not. I would rather listen to the counsel of my own heart, no matter where it will lead me.''

''If 'tis so, I respect your decision,'' said Amroth; then he turned to Haldir. ''Hathaldir, son of Malgalad, is it _your_ will to be remain with your chosen one, even if this would make _you_ an outcast and a lawbreaker in the eyes of her people?''

''It is, my Lord King,'' Haldir answered without hesitation, deeply moved by the fact that Amroth had even named his father, in order to emphasize the gravity of the situation. The young King nodded.

''Are you aware of the fact that you have only two paths to walk from now on:  to part and be reunited with your former spouses, if you want to go to the Blessed Realm, or else to remain here, in Middle-earth and eventually fade away?'' he asked earnestly.

''We do, my Lord,'' Haldir said for both of them and laid a protective arm around his beloved; ''and we choose to stay together and remain here – and perish, if it should be so. For we both feel our bond to be much stronger than the ones that tied us to our former spouses.''

''Does the head of your family accept your choice?'' Amroth turned to Gwenethlin. The matriarch bowed her head.

''I do, my lord. Even though it means that one day I might have to chose between remaining here, with my children, or being reunited with my husband, who, I am certain, is waiting in Mandos' Halls to be released. But I cannot and shall not deny my firstborn the happiness I once knew with his father.''

''Do the other members of the family give their consent to this union, even though such a bonding might be heavily frowned upon by many of our kin?'' Amroth continued, turning to Haldir's brothers.

''We do,'' Rúmil answered, while Orophin gave a simple nod. ''And I have been asked to voice the opinion of our sister and her husband in this matter. Both Fimbrethil and Ilverin do support our brother in his choice and are willing to take him and his new family into their home, should the need arise, since Edhellon is _not_ under Noldorin law(4).''

''Nor is Lothlórien, as long as I can call myself her King,'' said Amroth dryly. ''This is a Silvan realm, and the customs of the Silvan folk here shall be respected. Therefore, the family of Malgalad will always be welcome to dwell within her borders – _all_ members of it. 'Tis an honor to have such a noble and brave Lady in my court.''

''I thank you for your gracious support, my Lord,'' Haldir answered, moved almost to tears by this open display of friendship, ''but do consider that it might lessen your chances to make a union between the two realms in Lothlórien work. The Lady Galadriel will not take your open support of breaking Noldorin law kindly.''

''I am aware of _that_,'' Amroth gave him a rueful smile. ''But I shall not sacrifice your friendship and unwavering loyalty for mere politics. You have been my friend, my tutor and my protector all my life, Hathaldir, and you hesitated not for a heartbeat to leave the comfort and safety of Caras Galadhon in order to follow me here and support my claim of my birthright.  How could I ever turn my back on you?''

''And if the Lady Galadriel takes back her offer for an alliance?'' Haldir asked in worry.

''That would be unfortunate,'' Amroth shrugged, ''But not the end of Arda. I have won a strong supporter in King Thranduil of the Greenwood, and _that_ is an alliance I can always count on. For though Thranduil has no hidden powers to protect his home, Greenwood still _is_ the strongest Elven realm east of the Sea. And I have the support of Gildor Inglorion as well. Thus, although I would welcome an easier neighborhood, it truly means little to me whether the Kinslayer likes the members of my court or not.''

''Amroth,'' the Lady Arwen warned him, none too kindly, ''I have asked you not to speak of my kinswoman thusly. You might have your grievances, but I shall _not_ have you speak of my family in this manner. Ever. You are a King; so _act_ like a King.''

Amroth had the decency to look ashamed, and Erestor fought very hard to supress a grin. No-one raised the ire of Arwen Undómiel, Warrior Princess of Imladris, and got away unscathed. King Amroth obviously had yet to learn this – and mayhap the hard way.

''But that is not the point,'' Arwen added. ''For my hand is mine to give to whom I please – just as is my heart. And even though the Lady Galadriel would likely think that your court was a bad influence, _I am_ the one to choose, not she.''

''_Have_ you chosen then, Lady Undómiel?'' Erestor asked softly.

''Nay,'' said Arwen, ''for in my current state of mind it most certainly would be a wrong choice. Therefore, I have decided to remain in Lothlórien for some more time and consider my choices carefully.''

''If I may give you any counsel,'' Erestor said, ''I would ask you not to choose out of despair or wounded pride.''

Arwen gave him one of those mystic smiles.

''Worry not, my friend,'' she answered gently. ''I _never_ choose in haste. Nor would I let the folly of my youth choose for me.''

Erestor nodded in relief; it seemed that Arwen was slowly recovering from the grief over her doomed relationship with Gildor. He alone knew how doomed to failure that affair truly had been, having got a glimpse into the depths of Gildor's heart – it was _not_ a pleasant place, not even for the Elf-Lord himself.

But Arwen had always been strong, thank the Valar. She had the strength to put an end to something that could only bring her sorrow – she would have the strength to deal with the loss, too... and the strength for a new beginning.

Amroth looked from one to the other, clearly feeling that he had been left out of something very important, but decided wisely not to press.

''I am glad you decided to stay, Lady Undómiel,'' he said instead. ''Never have the stars shone brighter than when you grace our woods with your presence. Now,'' he added with a smile, turning to Fíriel, ''may I take a look at the youngest citizen of my realm?''

Fíriel returned the smile and laid the baby in his arms. The child was small and sprite-like, grey-eyed like his mother and ash-blonde like his father, though his delicate features reminded one more of Fíriel.

''He is adorable,'' Amroth murmured, kissing the top of the little head. ''Welcome, Malgalad son of Fíriel and Hathaldir.  I hope you will like it in our realm.''

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End notes:**

(1) There is a missing chapter describing those very events on my website – but only for adults. You don't really need to read it in order to understand this part of the tale.

(2) Sprout wanted Elladan to have someone in Lothlórien. Well, I always try to make my faithful readers happy...g Besides, such a thing can come in handy later.

(3) Okay, we all know that I'm messing with the Great Maker's concept about Elven love here, but I'm doing it deliberately, so there's no use flaming me for that.

(4) Now you might find this unlikely. But I've already emphasized in chapter 10 that Gildor basically let the council of his mostly Silvan subjects rule his realm, and that he respected Silvan customs for his people's sake. He didn't have that much choice, really, since only a handful Noldor lived under his rule. Edhellond was a settlement of the Silvan Elves.


	16. Chapter 11: Stirring of Hearts Heartson...

INNOCENCE

by Soledad

**Disclaimer:**

The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only Erestor's family belongs to me.

Rating: R this time, for some gory battle details. Yeah, people, 'tis not always about sex only! 

Please read Warnings before the Prologue. 

**Author's Notes:**

Time: (around 700, 3rd Age) 

Now, I know that the two parts of this particular chapter do not really match seamlessly.  Truth is, I wrote the second part first, for I needed to come along with the main storyline.  But when I was thinking about a proper nightmare, it occurred to me that this would be about the only opportunity to show Erestor in the Last Battle – so I chose it. I hope it is not too disturbing. 

Just one more thing: some of my dear friends from the Silmfics group objected to the armour on Gildor's horse – and they might have been right with their objections.  I'm no weapons expert, after all. However, I decided to keep that belly armour. I found it useful against wolves, and if Celebrimbor could make the Great Rings, why shouldn't he have been able to create such an armour?  After his death, of course, the secret was lost, and nobody could do it again.

There is no exact date given for this chapter. It was not necessary.

Once again, my heartfelt thanks to Isabeau of Greenlea for beta-reading.

Oh, and all of my faithful readers who helped me to reach the maginc number of 100 reviews. Not that it would be a competition of any sort, but I really appreciate your interest. So – keep them coming?

**CHAPTER 11: STIRRING OF HEARTS – HEARTSONG **

He had been separated from Elrond in the heat of the battle, and now he was fighting with all the strength of his youth and his vengeful hatred of the slaughterers of his family and his much-admired Lord, Celebrimbor, to get back to the side of his foster father. He could not miss him, for Elrond led the charge across the burning plain of Dagorlad without a helmet, so that his warriors could always recognize him from afar. His long, raven hair had freed itself from the containment of braids and was whipping around in the dry, hot winds of Mordor like the banners of Death itself.

His every slash, his every stab hit its target unerringly; his high cheekbones were smudged with ash and gore, and his once shining armour covered with the black blood of Sauron's hideous creatures. Terrifying he was in his cold wrath, swift and merciless as he cut a bloody path through the hordes of Orcs and wolves and other enemies, ready to face the Dark Lord himself. For who else could challenge Sauron if not him, the last child of Lúthien?(1) 

Somewhere halfway between them, another great warrior was putting the monsters of Mordor to their well-deserved deaths: Gildor Inglorion, clad in his magnificent armour of burnished gold, wearing a striking likeness of the Dragon-helm of Dor-lómin(2), his golden hair swirling around his grim face like a cloud.  Unlike other Elf-Lords, he was mounted, his mighty war-horse protected by shining armour all over as well, so that the wolves of Mordor could not tear open its belly.

The great, two-handed sword of Gildor was sharp and heavy enough to split even a cave troll in two, and it required almost impossible strength to wield, even from an Elf, yet the last Prince of the House of Finrod handled it as if it were but a long throwing knife. And while Elrond fought in embittered silence, save his shouted orders to his troops, the golden Prince roared new curses and insults toward his enemies and their dark Master with every slash he made and howled in horrible triumph at each enemy he saw falling.

Erestor fought with clenched teeth. Young and unused to battle he might have been, yet the wrath kept him going, sliding over the blood soaked bodies of his slain enemies, willing back the sickness that threatened to rise from his stomach at the smell of blood and death, of burnt flesh and smoke and ash. It was very much like the destruction of his old home – the only difference was that he was no frightened little elfling any more. He was a grown Elf now – one given the chance of avenging the horrible deaths of his loved ones. And the measure of his vengeance was far from full yet.

He cast a brutal blow with his shield, crushing the skull of an Orc, together with its helmet, with such force that it surprised even himself; but again, he was the son of a smith who had not only cut jewels and wrought delicate brooches but had forged swords and spear-heads as well, and who had gifted the strength of hardened sinews upon his only surviving son.

Erestor shook his head to free his mind from the distracting memories and sought out Elrond once again, realizing with a scowl that he had not gotten any closer to him, even though he had nearly caught up with Gildor, who was raving around in his battle rage like a golden dragon. Elrond must have swept across the battle plain like a thunderstorm, indeed.

For a fleeting moment Erestor was distracted by the whirlwind of golden-shining death not far before him so he only saw from the corner of an eye how two of the taller enemy soldiers, presumably Men in the service of the Dark Lord, shifted from Mannish to wolfen form – only that they were twice as large as common wolves and a lot bigger than even the biggest Wargs the Orcs used to ride, with unholy, glowing yellow eyes, fangs like ragged daggers and vicious, sickle-like claws on all four limbs.

Werewolves, Erestor realized with numbing fear, knowing all too well from old tales what such fell creatures were capable of. Survival instinct alone led his shield-arm to take a defensive position, protecting his abdomen from the razor-sharp claws of the first one, while he made hopeless attempts to fight off the other one with his sword.

But werewolves are not the same mindless beasts as their other wolfish kindred, combining the blood-thirst of Wargs with the wretched slyness of evil, thinking creatures, and one young Elf, still rather untried in battle, was no challenge for them. Not even for a single one; and most surely not for two. Thusly, it took them only a moment to tear the shield from Erestor's blood-slickened arm with their long, curved claws, breaking the limb along with the leather fastenings in the process, while an incredibly strong jaw closed on the wrist of his sword-arm, ragged fangs piercing his flesh, til he let his weapon fall from the searing pain. Then he felt something sharp and horribly strong puncture his mail shirt – a savage, burning pain in his abdomen, as the vicious claws and diamond-hard teeth of the creatures tore him open to eat the inner organs right from his still-jerking body.

He screamed in horror and agony, a scream so high and piercing that it nearly deafened him, hitting his own ears like a poisoned arrow – and waited for the darkness to come.

Instead, he heard a loud thud and the heavy carcass of a beheaded beast fell upon him, shifting back to its Man-shape in death. Fierce curses in several languages followed its fall, then the carcass was tugged off him, and the gleaming form of Gildor Inglorion bent over him, his armour now, too, stained with black splashes of Orc blood and even more gory substances; Erestor did not care to guess about, even if he had had no more urgent matters at hand.

''You still alive?'' the Prince asked hoarsely, and Erestor felt the insane need to laugh out loud, having been rescued by the very Elf who had always hated and despised him from the depths of his heart.  But he only had the strength to whisper:

''Barely...'' 

Gildor's eyes flicked briefly forwards, where Elrond and the High King and the Kings of Westernesse were engaging in battle with the suddenly-appeared Dark Lord himself, clearly anxious to race there and quench his blood lust by drawing the dark essence of their chief enemy – but then the responsibility for a fellow warrior won over. With a sigh, he tore his eyes from the final struggle that was to decide the outcome of this whole dreadful war, gathered the profoundly bleeding form of Erestor up in his powerful arms, leapt on the back of his steed and rode swiftly back to the rear lines where the healers tried to save those who were not yet beyond any help.

Just as he was taken from Gildor and laid upon a rough field blanket for Fíriel's skilled hands to clean up his grave wounds, a loud, piercing wail rolled over the battlefield, followed by a scorching wave of nearly unbearable heat and a deep rumbling of shaking Earth that threw Fíriel off her feet and across his battered body. And he passed out from the blood loss and the searing pain, not knowing that this, truly, was the end of their long struggle: the death-cry of the Dark Lord and the dissolution of his fana(3).

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Peace. Cool air kissing his heated skin, cool air and something else, something warmer, yet equally soft – lips? Warm, soft lips brushing his cheeks, gentle fingers caressing lightly his sweat-soaked hair, and a voice, sweet and low and lovely beyond anything he had ever heard, humming a slow, wordless song of love and reassurance...

He opened his burning eyes, red and swollen from the hot tears shed during this latest nightmare and grabbed the slender wrists of Lindir.

''What are you doing here, little one?'' he demanded hoarsely.  Lindir shrugged. 

''You had a nightmare.  I heard you screaming and came to chase your ghosts away.''

''You have not to do that for me, I have already told you many times," Erestor said, deeply moved. ''Nightmares come and leave as they have done all my life. No need to let yourself be bothered by them.''

Lindir, still sitting on the edge of his bed, looked down at him with those wide, sea-hued eyes, a shy smile on his beautiful face.

''But I owe you so much," he murmured softly. ''You healed me from my loneliness and filled my empty heart – and you made this city of stone into a home for me. And you offered me your friendship – you never treated me as if I were just a silly child... like the others do. How shall I ever be able to give you some of that care back?'' 

Erestor laughed and patted the pale, moonshine-blonde hair of his young charge.

''There is no need for that, little one.''

''Oh, but there is," Lindir insisted. ''I never knew how lonely my life had been before I met you. Master Aiwendil was wonderful to me, but he could never understand me, no matter how hard he tried. He is not one of us. But you... you gave me so much, and I...''

''You give my very being a purpose," Erestor interrupted, laying a gentle hand upon the knee of his charge. ''When you came here, I had already grown tired of the life in the valley. I was lonely, hurting and lost. Ever since the Lord Elrond married the Lady and they had children of their own, I felt like... like a fifth wheel in a carriage. I would have faded away without you. It is you who made me feel... useful again – even needed. And," he added with a sly grin, ''you also gave me something truly beautiful to look at.''

Lindir blushed slightly, and capturing Erestor's hand with his own brought it to his chest, laying it flat upon his rapidly beating heart.

''If someone is beautiful here, it is you," he replied shyly. ''It surprises me that someone so fair of face and so noble has to lead a lonely life. Are then all the fair maidens in the valley cursed with blindness?''

A great sadness clouded Erestor's handsome face. He shook his head.

''I have plenty of chances to consort merrily and adventurously," he answered slowly, ''but I have no desire to do so. I would wait for the one whom I could devote myself to completely, with body and heart and soul – and still, should I met such a maiden, I would never take the oath of bonding with her.''

''Why?'' Lindir asked, completely bewildered. Erestor sighed.

''I vowed never to have a family... never to father any children. I wish them not to suffer the same loss I have suffered.''

He had never spoken to any one about this, and already regretted having loaded his own burden onto the gentle heart of his charge. But to his surprise Lindir nodded his understanding.

''What about a male spouse?'' he asked.

Erestor knitted his brow. ''I never thought of that, truth be told. Although, it would make sense. What about you?''

Lindir blushed again. ''_What_ about me?''

Erestor reached out with his free hand, lightly brushing his thumb along the soft lips of his young charge.

''You lead a lonely life, too," he murmured. ''How can such beauty still be untouched? Has there never been any one who would touch your heart, little one? Of course, you still have to hold back til your Choosing Ceremony, but is there no-one you would consider choosing?''

''There are many who desire me," Lindir answered, shivering lightly under his touch, ''yet only one that I want. But he chooses to shut his eyes so as not to see my love for him, and I know not how to make him see.''

''Who is it?'' Erestor asked gently. No matter whom Lindir desired, he would do anything to help him to find happiness. Even if it broke his own heart.

Lindir let his head hung; mayhap he wanted to hide his face behind the silky curtain of his long hair.

'''Tis you," he whispered, barely audible. ''If only you would have me...''

Erestor sat up with a sudden jerk. The confession of his young charge had shaken him to the bone. ''What... what did you say?''

Lindir blushed again, beautifully.

''I... I am offering you the comfort of my body," he murmured. ''I see how you are lonely and hurt, and I... I have seen you watching me with longing...''

''O Elbereth!'' Erestor closed his eyes in despair. That should never have happened.  ''Little one, I am so very sorry...'' 

''Be not sorry!'' The slender hand of his charge touched his face, warm and comforting. ''Look at me, _indolírë_!(4)''

Erestor obeyed, and to his shocked surprise Lindir cast away his tunic in one fluid motion. His lithe upper body, exposed and so vulnerable, gleamed softly in the twilight.

''I might not be able to give you what you truly need," he said quietly, ''but whatever I have to offer, is yours for the taking – if you want it.''

Erestor was touched, almost to tears. He reached out a trembling hand to caress the beautiful face of his young charge.

''You know I cannot do this, little one," he said gently. ''You are still under age – and you are my charge. We must not have this kind of relationship. 'Tis not allowed.''

''But this is what I want," said Lindir stubbornly. ''I want to give you joy. Mayhap I shall be clumsy, but at least I am unspoiled," he slid his fine-boned hands down his own body. ''This has not been touched by anyone yet... all yours if that is what you desire.''

Erestor's hands followed Lindir's as if they had their own will, touching the soft flesh and smooth skin of his young charge almost fearfully.

''Ai, how much I wish I could accept your gift," he murmured softly. ''Indeed, I have longed for you almost from the moment you first set foot in this house. But we cannot do this, little one, not yet. You still have to come of age. Were I to give in to the sweet temptation of your willingness and beauty, we would be separated and never allowed to be together.''

''You would not _take_ aught from me," Lindir replied. ''I am _offering_. I never knew the love for another male, but I am willing to share myself with you... Not only my flesh but my heart and soul as well.''

He leant down and kissed Erestor sweetly, lingering on his lips for long moments ere he retreated. Then he captured Erestor's hand with his long, slender fingers and said with a surprisingly deep, husky voice: 

''I am willing to learn. Would you teach me?'' 

Not being able to resist any more, Erestor pulled Lindir to him and kissed him. It was a gentle, close-mouthed kiss at first, simply resting his lips on those of his charge, but even so it sent sparks through his whole body. His tongue sneaked out, almost as if by its own will and slid over Lindir's full lips, learning their taste and softness.

Lindir's whole body went rigid with anxiety at this first touch, his natural shyness almost overwhelming his bold offering, but Erestor was patiently probing and tasting, until his charge relaxed a little and opened for him.

The moment when his probing tongue finally entered Lindir's hesitantly opening mouth was overwhelming – more intimate than any complete joining he had ever experienced with the few lovers he had in his life. The realization that he was about to enter a secret place no one else had touched before made him giddy with desire. This beautiful youngling, the last truly innocent creature in Middle-earth had saved his unspoiled self for all those centuries, only to share it with him...

True innocence...

The thought was sobering like a cold spring rain.

No, he could not do this.

Not now.

Not yet.

He gently untangled himself from the soft restraint of Lindir's arms and looked into those beautiful eyes, now dark with desire.

''We cannot do this, little one," he said, saddened. ''Not now. Be patient. You shall come of age soon now.  We shall have our chance – if you are willing to wait.'' 

''Nay, I am _not_!'' Lindir pulled his hand away. ''You love me not. You do not even want me. Fine. I shall bother no more. Ever!''

With that, he sprang up and jumped through the window, not even caring to take his discarded tunic with him. Erestor looked after him for a moment, then sighed, shook his head and decided that he needed a very cold bath in the river.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Celebrían was shaken to find a silently crying young Elf high above one of the waterfalls, in a resting place known only to very few even in the valley. It was a favorite spot of hers and of Arwen's, the very one Arwen had brought Lindir to on the evening of his arrival.

''Lindir... what happened?'' the Lady of the Valley asked gently, gathering the folds of her soft grey gown to sit beside the youngling.

The silent tears kept running down that soft, beautiful face, but Lindir made no sound, just let them flow on their own. Celebrían sighed. Her own children were a lot less complicated, despite their dual heritage, save perhaps Elladan whose escapades gave her the most worries. But this innocent youngling was so very different from her strong, independent children; even troubled Elladan kept his own agonies stubbornly to himself, refusing any possible intervention from his parents.

Lindir, on the other hand, approached every person in the valley with the wide-hearted openness of a child and often got hurt or insulted others due to his limited experience in dealing with other people. Yet in all those – admittedly not always easy – years he had spent in Imladris, Celebrían had never seen him cry. In fact, he showed a remarkable resilience against distress for one who was raised by a grumpy old wizard with only birds and beasts as his companions.

''Come now," she nudged the narrow shoulders gently, ''you know you can tell me everything. _All_ people tell me their secrets, and I always keep them.''

She had learnt by know that she truly had to handle Lindir as a child, despite the fact that he was well over his physical maturity. Alas, legal maturity was still many years away, for there were some things Lindir learned very slowly – or not at all. Reasonable arguments would not work with the sensitive youngling at times of distress, but some well-placed cajoling always did.

Just as it did now. Lindir finally opened his eyes (they were reddened but not swollen, despite having wept for hours by now – even crying became him, Celebrían thought absently and a little envious, not being a pretty crier herself), and offered what he thought was an explanation (which, in Celebrían's opinion, was none):

''He hates me...'' 

Celebrían frowned, trying to count down all the male members of their household (for Lindir rarely spoke to any one else in the valley at all, unless he was sent to them on some errantry) that could have led the boy to this most likely false conclusion.  She found none.

''Who hates you?'' she finally asked.

Lindir gave her a bewildered look, as if she would have to have known whom he was speaking about.  ''Erestor," he answered, more breathing the name than speaking it out loud.

Celebrían silently counted to twelve(5).  In Quenya.  That usually calmed her down. 

Not this time, though.

''Why do you not tell me how it happened?'' she asked.  ''Maybe you misunderstood something.''

But the youngling just shook his head in despair.

''Nay, I did not!  He... he was dreaming again, so I climbed through the window and sang to him til he awoke.  And then, I offered him love – but he sent me away...''

Celebrían counted to twenty-four. Still in Quenya. Still no effect.

''You offered him _love_?'' she repeated as calmly as she could manage.

Lindir nodded, his eyes wide and utterly honest. ''I... I would have lain with him...," he said forlornly. 

''Why would you do such thing?'' Celebrían asked.

''For that is what he wants," Lindir shrugged. ''I can feel the desire coming off in waves from him, even if he wants to hide it.'' His eyes became strangely mature, and Celebrían realized once again how much they all underestimated the youngling; Lindir might have been innocent but he certainly was no fool. ''He is not the only one. There are many others in this valley who want me.''

''And what do _you_ want?'' Celebrían asked carefully.

Lindir's eyes became dreamy again. ''I only want _him_.''

''Erestor?'' Celebrían wanted absolute clarity in this matter. Lindir nodded, and she asked, ''Why him?'' 

The youngling looked forlorn again.

''I never wanted any-one else but him. He is fair... and noble... and so very sad, always so sad. I can make him feel better... I could, would he let me.''

''You already _made_ him feel better," Celebrían said. ''I had never seen him so happy and merry and playful ere you came to us. And I believe that he likes you very much. Now, do tell me everything that happened.''

Lindir sighed, nestled into the arms of the Lady of the Valley and slowly, hesitantly began to tell her all the details of what had happened between him and his tutor. Celebrían listened carefully, and when the youngling finished and would have started sobbing again, she gently but firmly stopped him.

''Enough, Lindir. Erestor was right to send you away. Had you managed to lure him into making love to you tonight, the Lord of the Valley would not have had any other choice but send you away from Rivendell and severely punish him. 'Tis against our law for a tutor to bed his charge, all the more so if he is underaged.''

''But I want him!''  Lindir's tears started flowing again. ''I would never have any other lovers but him! Why can I not be with the one I long for?'' 

''You can," Celebrían soothed, ''just not right now. Your age of maturity will come, and with it the Choosing Ceremony.''

''My... what?''

'''Tis a custom of the Grey-Elves that we offer the young ones of our valley, should they wish to partake it. A youngling, coming of age, is allowed to choose an older, more experienced partner to instruct him – or her – in the art of love-making. You shall be free to choose Erestor when your day comes. You surely remember the time when Arwen had her Ceremony, do you?''

Lindir nodded thoughtfully. He did remember, even though he had been more concerned with Gildor Inglorion's attempt to take him away from Imladris at the time. His eyes lit up with hope again – then the light was gone once more.

''But it will take more than a hundred years," he murmured sadly. 

Celebrían nodded. ''It will," she agreed with a slight smile, ''but you do have the time. Both of you. You are Elves.  For us a hundred years are no more than the wink of an eye. The question is: do you love him enough to wait for him?''

As she expected, the youngling looked at her with wide, honest eyes and answered without the slightest hesitation: ''I do. And I shall wait for him, no matter how long it takes.'' 

''You do that," Celebrían agreed, ''and I can promise you that it will be worth waiting for. Now, will you not come back to the house with me? 'Tis late, and Erestor surely is worried sick by now.''

Lindir hesitated for a moment; then he rose wordlessly and followed her back to the house.  The Lady was right. A hundred years were but the wink of an eye. He had waited this long; he would be able to wait just a little longer.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

**End notes:**

(1) Lúthien _did_ successfully defeat Sauron once – though not in battle but through enchantment.  As for Elrond being her last child, well at the time of the Last Battle he was.  He only married Celebrían years later. Also, I know that Sauron came out unexpectedly during the battle – Elrond was simply trying to rech the Black Gate here.

(2) A little detail I made up for fun.  In chapter 5: Roots Gildor wears a golden collar similar the _Nauglamír_, so I thought he might like other copies of famous First Age artifacts.  Besides, Erestor did say to Lindir, remembering the Last Battle, that Gildor fought there like a golden dragon, so...

(3) Physical form of Valar or Maiar. As you surely all know, Sauron _was_ a Maia.

(4) Heartsong in Quenya. Courtesy of Artanis.

(5) Tolkien mentions in the Appendices that Elves liked to count in sixes and twelves. See: the six seasons of the year or the six-day-week of Imladris. So, I thought it would be more accurate to let Celebrían count to twelve than to ten.g


	17. Chapter 12: Coming of Age

INNOCENCE

by Soledad  


Disclaimer:  
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only Erestor's family belongs to me. 

Rating: PG-13, for this chapter. 

Please read Warnings before the Prologue.

Author's Notes:

Finally, we reached the part so many of you were desperately waiting for! g Erestor accepts the role of the First Lover; ie: the one who teaches a newly matured youth the secrets of love-making; actually considered an honour among Elves - among *my* Elves, that is. And no, this is still *not* an AU. I haven't changed any *canon* facts, especially considering that the Great Maker didn't tell us a thing about Erestor, Lindir or even Gildor. I just happen to disagree with his view on Elven life. 

Lindir's education took roughly 300 years, mostly because due to his unique upbringing he was a lot more immature - or innocent - than other Elves; so Elrond and his people really took their time with him. 

Warning: a lot of dialogue and considerably less action here. Even though this is a First Time story, it's the emotional interaction I'm mostly interested in. 

Also, giving credit those who deserve it: the original idea of the Choosing Ceremony was conceived by Cheyenne Dancer, if I remember correctly.deep, admiring bow However, the *actual* form of it as well as the details are mine.

This chapter is still undergoing its beta-process, so try to be patient with my typos and grammar weirdness. I'll re-post it as soon as it's done, but since the chapter has been up on my own website for months by now, I thought I would post it anyway.

CHAPTER 12: COMING OF AGE 

[The 1st day of Enderi - the Middle Days - in the year 839 of the Third Age.] 

It had been a long time since the Wandering Company lastly visited Imladris. More than a hundred years, in fact - at least how mortal Men count the passing of time. For Elves, 'tis but the wink of an eye, of course. Still, many of them felt happy to see the beauty of Elrond's hidden valley once more. Their journey had led them on different paths lately, and when on road, they spent the winter seasons in Eryn Galen or in the Grey Havens, by Círdan. Their Lord had felt the need to visit Elostirion repeatedly. 

But this time was different. They were invited to come to Elrond's realm for the great feast of the Middle Days. Also, in this year the festival had a very rare significance: Lindir of Rhosgobel has finally fome of age. 

Giving in to Celebrían's gentle pressure, Elrond finally agreed that their young charge had learnt all that he would ever be able to learn, and that keeping him in a child's status would be as unwise as it would be cruel. So, Elrond had given the nod, and preparations for the biggest feast since the Lady Arwen's own ceremony had immediately begun. 

Messages were sent to the South Haven, to Lothlórien and even to Eryn Galen, in hope that Thranduil's folk would know how to find Aiwendil, and soon guests of the many different places began to arrive. Haldir and Fíriel were the first ones who came, joining the escort of the Lady Arwen with their children - now three of them, the youngest still a mere toddler, and they seriously planned to have at least one more, regardlessof the strength that birthing them had cost Fíriel already. 

King Amroth had sent his regards, regretting that he could not leave his realm to join the feast, not with his first counsellor gone, and even the Lord Celeborn had done the same. Surprising for all, Aiwendil (who was called Radagast the Brown among the Woodmen) was next to arrive, and Lindir's joy knew no boundaries. At once, he forgot all about his own upcoming ceremony, spending his days with the withered old wizard, trying to bridge centuries of separation in a mere week(1). Celebrían had to drag him in the house by force, in order to make at least *some* preprarations, so enthralled he had become. 

Finally, on the very morrow of the festival itself, the Wandering Company arrived, too. They had came a long way, for the message had reached them somewhere deep in South Gondor, and they had to travel swiftly if they wanted to be on time. Even so, he barely managed to do it. 

Erestor, as it was his duty, came drown from the Great House to greet them. If he wanted to be honest, at least to himself, he *did* feel a little awkward, This was the first time he had to face Gildor since his visit in the South Haven - the first time he knew not what to expect. 

To his great relief, the Elf-Lord seemed to be his unchanged self: proud, kingly nad more than a little arrogant to every one, except his own people. And yet, as they clasped each other's forearms in the time-honoured warriors' fashion, Erestor thought to see a subtle change in those cold, sea-hued eyes. There was sorrow, for sure, even more than it had been before - but they were more calm, less haunted than they used to be. 

They stood motionless, holding each other's forearm for endless moments, to the great astonishment of both Gildor's and Elrond's people who were standing around, looking at them curiously. The eager conversation stopped slowly, as if they had waited for something... strange to happen. 

'''Tis good to see you again, Erestor'', the Elf-Lord finally said, releasing the younger Elf's arm. ''You look good.'' 

''And you, my Lord'', Erestor replied with a slight bow. ''We all are glad that you could make it in time. 'Tis a great day for all of us. For Lindir above all others.'' 

''And an important one for yourself, no doubt'', said Gildor, for once without his usual, haughty smile. ''Your long labours with the boy will end now.'' 

''That they would'', Erestor agreed a little sadly, falling in step on Gildor's side while escorting the high-ranking guest to his usual temporary home, a nicely-built, otherwise empty house further down in the valley. ''It will be... strange, to say the least. I truly have become accustomed to having him with me all the time.'' 

Gildor nodded, and they walked in silence down the winding paths of the valley. The others, having their homes next to their Lord's, followed them quietly from some distance, to give them a little privacy. 

''He will choose you, you know'', Gildor said after a while. Erestor shrugged. 

''He might. He might make a different choice. We cannot know for sure.'' 

''*Every* one knows what his choice will be'', Gildor replied with an impatient gesture. ''Even I. Only you are blind enough to doubt his infatuation with you.'' 

''I *do* know about that'', Erestor said, ''though I never encouraged him. He deserves better.'' 

''In *that* we agree'', Gildor answered bluntly. ''The child is a rare gift of the Valar and should live according his high birth. But my opinion, or even yours, changes not the fact that he only has eyes for you. Mayhap getting finally what he has longed for in all these years will wake him from his childish dreams.'' 

''Erestor bit his lower lip; the casual remark, even though made without the earlier intense hostility Gildor used to show towards him, stung nevertheless. More so that he had to admit that the Lord of Edhellond was right. Lindir *did* deserve someone better than him, and were his long-nurtured roamntic dreams comforted by reality, mayhap he *would* realize that, too. 

''That would be probably the best - for us all'', he replied quietly. Gildor gave him a sharp lookfrom the side but said naught. Still, Erestor had the feeling that Lindir's uncle doubted the sincerity of his words. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

As it had become customary ever since Celebrían first introduced the Sindarin custom of the Chosing Ceremoní to Imladris, the feast was held in the Hall of Fire. Elrond took his high seat, as always during ceremonies, and his family sat on his side: his sons, including Erestor, on his right, Celebrían and Arwen on his left, also called the heart-side among Elves. Lindir was seated on the opposite end of the Hall, between the old wizard and Gildor, who both represented his family. 

Glorfindel, who served as the Ceremony Master, being the eldest of Elrond's household, stood in the middle of the Hall with the Lady Aquiel, who had been chosen to assist him in his duties. They both were clad in forest green, their long, golden hair unbraided, for they took over the rôle of the forces of nature. 

When the silver bells chimed, signalising the beginning of the festival, Glorfindel turned to Elrond and Celebrían, saying: 

''My Lady, my Lord, at the beginning of the Middle Days, I announce you with joy that a child of our community has come of age. I respectfully ask you to allow him the step into adulthood and to give him your blessing when reaching this first milestone of maturity.'' 

''Let the father bring the child before us'', Elrond answered, as it was custom. 

This, however, led to an awkward moment, for both Gildor and Radagast rose to bring Lindir before the Lord of the Valley. According to law, both had the right to do so, and every one in the Hall waited with caught breath whom the youngling would choose. Lindir looked from one to the other in anguish for a moment - then he reached for Radagast's hand. Gildor slumped back onto his seat in defeat, the pain over the rejection clearly visible for a fleeting moment upon his unguarded face. Then he straightened again, his usual, cold mask sliding back in place. 

The old wizard now led his ward to the Lord's high chair, and Lindir kneeled, as he had been taught to do. Elrond looked fondly into those wide, innocent eyes, smiled and said: 

''Lindir of Rhosgobel, long hath thou dwelt under my roof in the safety of a wwell-protected child, and we all cherish the memory of those years. But even the longest childhood has to end one day; and thy time has finally come. Art thou ready to give up the safety and freedom of childhood for the burdens and responsibilities of adult life?'' 

''I am ready, my Lord'', Lindir answered, though his voice trembled a little. Long has he waited for this very moment, yet now that it had come, he was more than a little scared. 

''Then the Lady of the Valley and I welcome thee as a grown citizen of Imladris and grant thee all the rights and freedoms that come with this status'', said Elrond formally. 

Then both he and Celebrían kissed Lindir on the brow, and after cutting off a symbolic lock that was left folating away freely in the evening breeze, the Lady Aquiel began to braid Lindir's hair in an adult fashion. She made two thin braids above each delicately pointed ear and weaved them together on the back of Lindir's head, fastening them with a butterly-shaped silver clasp. 

Now officially an adult, Lindir rose to his feet and accepted the congratulations and best wishes of his friends and family, and every one looked at him in awe, for he semed to have matured many years in these mere moments - and was so radiantly beautiful as never before. 

After all have embraced and kissed and congratulated the young Elf, Glorfindel asked the guests to take their seats again and turned back to Lindir. 

''Lindir of Rhosgobel, 'tis the time-honoured custom of the Grey-Elves that every young one who has reached adulthood choose someone who would teach them the ways of loving. Hath thou made thy Choice?'' 

Lindir nodded gravely. ''Indeed, I have, Master Glorfindel.'' 

''Then name us the one of thy Choice.'' 

Lindir smiled, albeit with slightly quivering lips, and announced: ''I have chosen Erestor, the son of Hargil and Numuial, for my First Time.'' 

Glorfindel nodded. The choice surprised no-one, in truth. The whole valley knew that Lindir was in love with his tutor - and had been for a long time. The ancient Elf now turned to Erestor. 

''Doth thou accept this choice, Erestor, son of Hargil and Nimuial?'' 

''I do'', Erestor answered quietly. Not that there would be any other choice, either. Refusing a youth on his Choosing Ceremony would have been the worst insult possible. Not that he *wanted* to refuse lindir, of course, and Glorfindel knew that, mayhap more certain that he knew it himself. 

''So be it'', the Ceremony Master said with a smile. ''May the Valar bless thy Frist Time with joy, young one.'' 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Now, that the traditional words had been spoken, Lindir took his Chosen One by the hand and led him to his chambers, that - considering his recent status as an under-aged youngling - contained only an airy room to sleep in, with the inevitable adjoined balcony, looking to one of the inner gardens, a small bathing chamber and an equally small room for his clothes. 

Part of the large bedchamber was made into a small study, with a tall, narrow writing desk in the best-lit corner - the sort at which the scribe had to write in the old, standing fashion - the beautiful harp he was given in Lothlórien standing beside it, and with a few shelves containing leather-bound copies of old books of lore. Copies that had been made by Lindir's own skilled hands. 

Among other talents, he also had a beautiful handwriting, too, and Elrond gave him pemission to make copies for himself of the books he was most interested in - mostly books of ancient legends and music, but also of herbal lore. There were times when the Elders of the House wished Pengolod(2) hadn't left Middle-Earth after the fall of Eregion; Lindir would have made an excellent student of ancient tongues. 

Erestor had been in this room before. Many times, in fact, since he used to be Lindir's tutor, and many of their lessons had been given here, in this very chamber. Yet this was a greatly different occasion, as the garlands of holly and red berries and other floral ornaments that had adorned the room showed at once, and, truth to be told, he felt a slight, nervous fluttering in his stomach, knowing that from now on their relationship would change for ever. 

It took him a long time 'til he came to realize that Lindir had been in love with him through all those centuries the youngling had spent in Imladris (according to Elladan, who had seen it coming all along, he was a bit dense when it came to the matters of heart); and it took him even longer to admit his own feelings for the young Elf - well, he still was in denial about *that* part, at least to some extent. 

Not that Lindir would not deserve to be loved - quite the contrary. Erestor felt *himself* unworthy of such a bounty. After all, the youngling was not only gifted and beautiful, he was of royal blood, too, even if he refused to be adopted into Gildor Inglorion's family. 

But now the time of hesitation was over. Finally reaching his legal maturity - after such an unnaturally long period, due to his unique upbringing -, Lindir had made his choice, honouring Erestor with the role of the First Lover, who had to introduce him to the joys of flesh... but in their case it was more than just the time-honoured custom of Elves. Lindir had chosen out of love - something that was rare among the Firstborn who usually found the lover of their life hundreds of years *after* their First Time. 

Elrohir and the Lady Aquiel were considered a rarity in this matter. 

''There were times when I feared this day shall never come'', said Lindir softly, and in his wide, sea-hued eyes there was a light that could not have been seen anywhere else, not even in Valinor, *before* the poisoning the Two Trees. ''How my heart has yearned for this hour in all those long and lonely years, when you were at arm's length and yet out of my reach! How have I feared that my heart's desire shall never be granted! Yet lo! We are here now, and soon we shall become as one. Oh, what a very lucky Elf I am, indeed!'' 

Erestor similed and shook his head in sorrow.  
''Nay, little one, speak not like this. You still have many years before you ere you shall choose your soul-mate. That is a matter of long and careful consideration, for a bond like such cannot be re-made, not even after the end of Arda. Make not any hasty promises - not to me and not to yourself. This is your First Time; an event of great importance for a young Elf, yet naught more.'' 

'''Tis everything I have ever wanted, and more'', Lindir replied, eyes dilating to almost complete blackness with desire. ''Had you rejected me, *indolírë*, I would have fled this body by sunrise and never returned from Mandos' Halls again. There is no-one else for me but you, and never shall be.'' 

He held out a slender hand and in the dim light of the scented beeswax candles it seemed to tremble; also, there was a faint glittering in his darkened eyes as if he would fight back tears - tears of bliss or tears of despair, Erestor could not tell. 

''In all days of my life, I never felt such eagerness and such fear'', he continued, swallowing hard to be able to speak at all. 

Erestor reached forth his own, somewhat broader hand (the inheritance from a father who spent endless centuries at an anvil, wielding the heavy hammer), and hesitantly his strong fingers, that knew the string of the bow just as well as the hilt of a sword, even if he only wielded the pen in those days, closed over the slender white ones stretched toward him, that would never even touch a weapon. Lindir breathed deeply at the contact, and it seemed to Erestor that the glitter of tears would flood his dreamy eyes. 

''What would you fear on such a day?'', he asked gently. '''Tis a day of great joy, not only for you, but for us as well, who can release a beloved child from our care into maturity. You are your own Elf now - no-one can make you aught that you would rather not do.'' 

''I feared that you would reject me - again'', Lindir answered, his voice slightly trembling, ''just as you did a hundred years ago. That you would not feel the same for me I feel for you.'' 

"What I would or would not feel, is of no importence when a Choosing Ceremony is held," Erestor said gently, patiently, " even If I would believe that binding a young Elf of your descent and beauty and gifts to someone like me would be the right thing to do, regardless the passion I feel for you. Little one, do you know what you are doing?" 

Gently he released the Lindir's hand and turned away, his cheeks burning, driven by the despair he always felt when Gildor reminded the dwellers of the valley of Lindir's true heritage. 

"You have brought to your chamber the orphaned son of a mere jewel-smith wo is alive but for the grace of our Lord and who is hardly good enough to take care of his household. You, Ingwil son of Duilin, are a creature of light and air, a beautiful songbird bathing in the first pale sunrays of the blossoming spring, and I - I am but a sorted-out warhorse, limping through his life bothered by the remainders of old injuries!" 

He spoke bitterly, with heated passion, wanting to convince the youngling to reconsider, to look out for a partner more worthy, but desperately fearing such a decision at the same time. 

But Lindir only laughed at him, a gentle, merry sound like the ringing of water falling into the basin of a silver fountain. 

"A songbird!" he chided, but his voice was full of warmth and tenderness. "No songbird would I be, but a mute fish without you, hiding in the darkest corners of a cold lake. And have you forgotten that faithful beast, my horse, that alone gave me some solace after Master Aiwendil had left? Were you not the one who seeked me out and found me in the stables, holding me in your arms to comfort me in the dark loneliness of that first night?'' 

Now it was Erestor's turn to swallow hart, because this was very true, and it seemed that that very first night Lindir spent in Imladris had already bound them together, without them knowing of it. It was him now who held out a hand, and Lindir, with the grace of an egret indeed, swooped upon him and threw himself in Erestor's arms. 

They held one another tightly in this first true embrace, and their kiss was long and gentle, as natural as the spring rain. When at last it ended they did not let go of each other, but Lindir hid his face in the gentle curve of his beloved's neck, and now it was Erestor who felt the heat of tears swelling up in his eyes. 

''My eyes have never seen the light of the Jewels(3), save the Evening Star itself'', he murmured, his voice trembling; ''nor had those of my fathers. ''But when the Lord Celebrimbor visited our house, he often told us, children about their great beauty. Yet I cannot belive that their light could even come close to the light in your eyes; and their beauty would fade in the face of yours.'' He paused for a moment, and now his voice regained its stability; it was solemn and intimate. ''My heart is full of it... full of *you*.'' 

He gently lifted Lindir's face, pushing the young Elf at arm's length from himself to be able to look into his eyes. The youngling's eyes were wide and dark - every bit of blue was gone from them, the only thing remaining the widened pupils and a deep trust, and Erestor felt his chest tightening with fear again, for such a limitless trust put a burden on the one who had been trusted not to betray the other, and he felt, once again, not strong enough to carry such a burden. 

Once more he reached out, running his fingers through the youngling's silky hair, heavy in his hand like like the molten silver, mixed with gold in his father's workshop, where Hargil would make delicate jewelry from the rare alloy of *ithildin* to adorn the dark tresses of the moon-dancers, following the teachings of the visiting Dwarves. 

/How strange/, he thought absently, /that I would compare the beauty of that whom I love to the precious metals my father loved so much - almost as much as he loved his own family./ 

He was brought back from his ill-timed musings by a soft touch on his cheek. The long fingers of the young minstrel were caressing his hair that he wore in a tight knot on his nape, in the fashion of the jewel-smiths of Eregion. He had returned to this hairdo after the his visit in Gildor's realm - unsure himself, why exactly he did; mayhap it was some unconscious re-bonding with his own roots. 

''May I let down your hair?'', Lindir asked softly. ''I have not seen them unbound for so long... I liked them in braids, when the light could play with the dark tresses.'' 

Erestor smiled, feeling a little less nervous now, and nodded in agreement. The simple leather cord that bound his hair together and doubled over itself was no match for Lindir's nimble fingers, and it fell over Erestor's shoulders that were surprisingly broad for an Elf, though a Man mayhap would found his stature common enough. But he was not only the son of a hard-working craftsman, he had begun to learn his father's crafts at a very young age, lifting a hammer made for a Man grown as a young elfling still. 

His hair was different from that of the nobles of the Eldar: dark, almost black, but with a hint of copper upon it, thick and slightly wavy, and though soft to the touch, a little coarse. Compared with the sleek glossiness of Lindir's hair, it even seemed rough - Erestor felt all together much too rough to even touch such exquisite beauty as Lindir's. 

But the youngling did not seem disturbed over their differences at all. He finger-combed Erestor's hair with obvious delight - then he fetched a wooden comb from his bathing chamber, ran it through the dark tresses and re-braided them in a manner Erestor had wore his hair at the time he was brought to Imladris - well, almost. At that time Erestor's braids most certainly were not adorned with the same delicate lover's knots. 

''Are you casting some sort of spell upon me?'', Erestor asked softly, for indeed, such knots were meant to bind the heart of those that wore them as well as his hair. 

''None other than the power of my love'', Lindir answered solemnly, leaning near to place a gentle kiss on his lips. ''Would you allow me to remove your robes?'' 

''Can I deny you aught?'', Erestor replied with a question of his own, but his playfulness was gone at once seeing the uncanny depths of passion and sorrow in those dreamy eyes. 

''Aye, you can'', Lindir murmured, ''yet I hope with all my heart that you shall not do so. Not tonight. Nay'', he added quietly, placing a slender finger over Erestor's mouth before he could have protested; ''you told me not to make promises I might not keep later. Now I ask you the same.'' 

Astonished by the wisdom of his young lover's words, Erestor simply nodded and allowed Lindir to undress him, peeling off slowly the many layers of gold-embroided, heavy ceremonial robes. He felt strangely vulnerable. Rarely had he before cared for the fact that his whole body was criss-crossed with old scars - truthfully, his few other lovers (Elladan before all else) had admired them greatly as the proof of his valiant fights that they really were. Yet now, facing the unblemished beauty of his as-yet untouched lover, he felt damaged and ugly. 

And indeed, Lindir had vanished from him like a shadow, and he felt a strange ache in his hearts, thinking that the youngling, indeed, regertted his choice and would back out of it. Lindir, however, was only taking taking a lamp from the mantle of the small fireplace to light it from the fire with a straw. 

"'Tis not the time to hide in darkness," he said, turning back to him with intense eyes. "I would want a better look at your honourable scars. I want to know them. All of them." 

With that, he held out his free hand and led Erestor to his bed - the same square, oversized sort with a beautifully carved headboard, this one wrought into the shape of a white tree with golden blossoms - and gestured him to lay down. Then he sat on the bedrand, putting the lamp on the nightstand and scrutinized Erestor's scarred skin with deep concentration. 

Then he reached out and touched the strange, puckered scar under Erestor's collarbone, the only remainder of a routine partol gone terribly wrong.  
''This one'', he said. ''What caused it?'' 

''An Orc-arow'', Erestor sighed impatiently. ''Little one, is this truly the time to tell old wartime stories?'' 

''Wartime stories are of no interest for me'', Lindir replied, ''but now that you have gifted the unveiled sight of your body upon me, I want to learn it. All of it. *And* I want to learn the ways you can be taken from me.'' 

''What for?'', Erestor asked. ''One cannot always avoid all the perils life can bring. Not in Middle-earth. Not as long as all evils are not perished.'' 

''I know that'', Lindir said, ''but I need to be prepared. Time might come that you shall be forced to go to war again, and I would not be able to join you. I need to know what to expect. Now, tell me!'' 

Erestor sighed. The last thing he needed was re-living his vicious fights and completely ruin what promised to be a night of sweet pleasure. But he knew that Lindir had his own way to deal with violence and loss, and he saw that the youngling was mortified by the sight of his scars, some of which truly looked hideous, even after more than a thousand years. 

So he sighed and told Lindir the story of the unlucky patrol. Strangely, it seemed not to upset the youngling. He simply nodded, thanked him and leaned down to drag his tongue sensuously over the puckered surface of what once had been a poisoned wound. 

''Now it is mine'', he declared in a proprietary manner; then he slid his fingertips down to a long, thin scar on Erestor's left side, almost completely faded away during the immense length of time that had passed in-between. ''What about this?'' 

''I cannot be sure'', Erestor replied, starting to get into the spirit of things, ''most likely a dagger cut. I got it during the fall of Ost-in-Edhil as a little elfling. Our troups had to retreat so hurriedly, the Lord Elrond only detected it when it was already half-healed.'' 

''It matters not'', Lindir stated, giving the old scar a similar treatment, ''for this, too, is mine now.'' Then he trailed with his fingers a long, thick and still very ugly scar that run across Erestor's ribcage, from his right breast down to his left hip. ''What is this?'' 

''Werewolf attack upon the plain of Dagorlad'', Erestor said, shuddering from the mere memory of it. ''They would have eaten me alive if not for Gildor. Their fangs were so sharp, they cut through my mail shirt cleanly... I was halfway to Mandos' Halls when your uncle came along and slew the foul beasts with two short, hand-held blades.'' 

''He is *not* my uncle'', Lindir murmured more out of custom than true denial, kissing and licking along the horrible scar, ''not truly. Yet I am still very grateful that he saved you - for me.'' 

Erestor reached out to ran his hands through the silky cascade of moonray-hair, hissing softly with pleasure. Then a thought occured to him.  
''May I ask you something, little one?'' 

''Mmm'', Lindir murmured incoherently, continuing his ministrations. It was rather... distracting, but Erestor could be as stubborn as the next Elf when he wanted to know something. 

''Why have you refused to be adopted by Gildor? You *are* the last twig of the royal tree of the Finwëans, after all.'' 

Lindir let go of him, straightened and his face became hard as marble.  
''If I had joined his family, he would never have allowed me to be with you. There is naught on this Earth or over the Sea I would give you up for. You are the one for whom I have waited all my life, and ere would I flee my body than bond myself to someone other.'' 

Erestor sighed. Regardless of his tender feelings towards the youngling, this was too much for him. He still was not prepared to bond himself, not out of fear for his own heart, but for that of Lindir. What if the passion of youth faded? Would Lindir still want him, and only him? Could he give his young lover aught that would be worth of sacrifying his own family, however far removed it might be? Or would their love end in bitter disappointment, with both their hearts broken? 

He caught one slender hand and pulled it to his own breast, laying it flat over his heart. 

''Let us not speak of such things, dear one'', he said gently. ''This is but your First Time, not a bonding ceremony. Once you asked me to teach you the ways of loving - and here I am, ready to do just that. Would you be content with that much for now?'' 

''If 'tis the blessed week of Choosing alone that you are willing to give me, then I shall gladly take it'', Lindir murmured. ''It will change naught in my heart.'' 

''That, at least I can give you now'', Erestor said. ''What is to come, we shall see as it comes. We cannot look into the times that are not yet, and there is no use to anguish about them. Come, dear heart, let me give you joy, as once you wanted to give it to me. Now is the time when we are allowed to do that.'' 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Far apart from the music and dance that crowned the first Eve of Enderi, in one of Elrond's gardens, two gold-haired Elf-Lords sat in sorrowful silence. They had been sitting there for hours now, not speaking a single word. It was Gildor, who finally broke the silence. 

''And so it ends'', he said with a fatalistic sigh. ''I have fought so hard for this child - ever since I met him for the first time - and finally I lost. He was the last hope for the House of Finrod to have heirs, even though by adoption - now all hope is lost. Unless my parents had an other child in the Blessed Realm, that is. But for Middle-earth, our House is lost.'' 

''Or unless you should have a change of heart'', Glorfindel agreed sadly. Gildor shook his head. 

''I cannot. I have tried it, Glorfindel... I tried it *very* hard. I told myself it would be my duty. But you know yourself what being soul-bound, *truly* bound, not by some ceremony only, means for one of us.'' 

''Oh, I know, believe me'', Glorfindel nodded. '''Tis strong enough to bring you back from the dead, should you still be needed.'' 

''So there is no second chance for any of us - is this what you mean?'', Gildor asked. 

''Nay, 'tis not. *I have* got my second chance, after all, even though it means that I might have to wait for another Age to take it. But the true question is: *do* you want to be freed from your bond?'', Glorfindel asked back seriously. 

''Nay, I want not'', Gildor answered. ''All I want is to be with him again. But that is not likely to happen before the end of Arda.'' 

''I fear not'', Glorfindel admitted; then, after some length of time, he asked the one question he had wanted to ask Gildor since the begin of this Age. ''Is this the reason why you still tarry in Middle-earth?'' 

''The mean reason'', Gildor nodded slowly. ''And the fact that here, at least, I still can be useful.'' 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

End notes: 

(1) Which means only six days in the Calendar of Imlardis. Just reminding you. ;-)  
(2)''The most resourceful scholar Tolkien wrote about was Pengolod, a half-Noldo/half-Sindar Elf of Gondolin who joined the Lambengolmor, the Masters of Tongues, a school of loremasters founded by Fëanor in Aman and who (apparently) joined in the rebellion of the Noldor even though Fëanor had long since ceased to work with languages.  
We know little of the history of the Lambengolmor. They studied Sindarin and probably some Nandorin and Avarin dialects in Beleriand, but much of their knowledge was lost when the Noldorin kingdoms began to fall. Those of the Lambengolmor who survived the destruction in the north eventually settled in Arvernien, and later moved on to the Isle of Balar with Círdan and Gil-galad, or else they remained followers of the sons of Fëanor. In the Second Age Pengolod settled in Eregion and it was probably there he (and possibly others) studied Khuzdul, the Dwarven language.  
Pengolod was the only loremaster of the Lambengolmor to survive the catastrophic War of the Elves and Sauron, and when the battles were finished he took ship from Mithlond and left Middle-earth forever, last of his kind to grace Middle-earth. With him departed much ancient knowledge which had not been committed to books.'' (Michael Martinez: Them Dwarves, them Dwarves! Part 2)  
(3)The Silmarils.  



	18. Chapter 13: Sleeping Demons

**INNOCENCE**

by Soledad

**Disclaimer:** The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only Erestor's family belongs to me.

**Rating:** PG for this chapter.

Please read Warnings before the Prologue.

**Author's notes:**

Time: (862, 3rd Age – after the death of King Eärendur and the division of Arnor) 

Angelimir's nickname, Maglilthadir (= Sword Dancer) was created and donated by the most generous Orchyd Constyne. *bows in gratitude*

Beta-read by the generous Larian Elensar. All remaining mistakes are mine.

**Summary:** Elrond's family is on their way to Lothlórien to witness Arwen's betrothal ceremony to King Amroth. They make a rest near the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil, and Erestor faces a few memories.

CHAPTER 10: SLEEPING DEMONS 

**[The 36th day of _coir_, in the year 836 of the Third Age]**

The rather impressive travelling party of Elrond's household made its way with comfortable speed southwards. There were not due to arrive in Caras Galadhon before the end of the stirring season, and they travelled on horseback; so there was no need to hurry. 'Twas not unusual that someone from Imladris – in most times the Lady Celebrían or her daughter – went to visit the Golden Wood for a while; however, it very rarely happened that the Lord of the Valley accompanied her, with almost his whole household, leaving Glorfindel behind in charge.

But this was not a common occasion, either. They went to witness the betrothal of Arwen Undómiel with King Amroth of Lothlórien.

This time they took the way through Eregion – well, the remains of it, to be more accurate – as the High Pass was still covered with snow. But further south, so the winged messengers had reported, the pass of Caradhras was free already, so they could cross the mountains without being forced to go through the great Dwarven city under the Hithaeglir. That was something they would not do, unless in dire need. Not that the Dwarves would refuse them the entrance – the relations between Imladris and Moria were passable, if not too friendly – but Elves generally disliked enclosed spaces, more so those under the earth.

The only one who would have no problems going through Moria was Erestor. He had already been there in his early childhood and still remembered the vast mansions and great halls of the Dwarven city with awe. But even though he would not mind to see this small part of his childhood again, he knew that Lindir would panic in the long dark of Moria. The young minstrel would be hard-pressed to endure a walk under the earth, without feeling the caress of sunshine and wind upon his face. Lindir was not unlike the woodland folk – which was no wonder, considering the fact that he had spent his early years in Radagast's airy wooden halls in Rhosgobel.

Many of Elrond's household shared Lindir's feelings towards Moria, thus Erestor agreed with Elrond's decision to take the Redhorn pass instead of the Dwarven mines. Besides, this way they could go on horseback which eased their journey immensely. The magnificent Elven horses of Elrond's house – descendants of those given to Fingolfin by Maedhros as part of his atonement – were sure-footed and could walk the steep and narrow mountain paths with ease.

Thus they journeyed swiftly through the empty lands between the Mountains and the River Gwathló, undisturbed by both beasts and Men. Wild and beautiful these lands were, having long returned to their original state, as no Elves had the heart to settle here after the horrible fate of Eregion. Men dared not to cross the River Glanduin, for Dwarves had no tolerance for trespassers into the lands that they considered theirs after Celebrimbor and his people were gone. The Dwarves had no true use for those lands, but they kept them untouched by others, in honour of Celebrimbor, whom they had considered a most valued ally and called Dwarf-friend.

Though the stirring season was to two-thirds over already, the air was still chilly and the sunshine pale and cool when they reached a low ridge crowned with ancient holly-trees whose grey-green trunks seemed to have been built out of the very stone of the hills. Their dark leaves shone and their red berries – wrinkled and dried, but still present from the previous _loa_ – glowed in the light of the settling sun.

"Is this it?" asked Lindir softly, slipping a slender hand into Erestor's; they rode close enough to reach each other with little effort. Erestor nodded.

"It is. We have come to Eregion – or what is left of its chief city, Ost-in-Edhil of the once-white walls."

"Have you ever been there since… since its fall?" Lindir was not certain if he should ask such things, yet he could not help it. He was curious, eager to learn more about the reserved, solitary Elf whom he loved with all the gentle passion of his youthful heart. Erestor shook his head.

"Never… 'til now."

"But you do remember what it was like back then, do you not?"

"Of course I do. I was a little elfling during the Fall, but no toddler. I could tell you about the gardens and fountains and orchards and the white-walled mansions. I still can find the place where the House of the Mírdain used to stand, with Minas Elenath, the Tower of Stars that was Lord Celebrimbor's home… or the other gild houses. And I can show you what once was my parents' house, if you want me to."

"I do," answered Lindir solemnly. "I would be honoured to share your memories."

"Be careful what you wish for, little one," Erestor sighed. "It might be less than pleasant, you know."

They were interrupted by Elrond's orders to settle for the night, and for a while there would be eager work to prepare their night shelter and the evening meal.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

They made camp outside the ruins of the city, for Elrond, too, had painful memories concerning Ost-in-Edhil. Erestor seemingly vanished, during the preparations, and Lindir could not find him, no matter how much he looked. But the Lady Celebrían, who had visited Celebrimbor's halls with her parents in her youth, offered to walk with Lindir around and share her memories of the early days of peace in Eregion.

"Those were good years," she remembered, sitting with Lindir on the river bank, while the waters of the Glanduin expanded before their eyes in a great, gentle arch, so broadly that it needed an Elven eye to glimpse whatever might have been on the other side, "the ones before Annatar came to seduce and corrupt the Mírdain. For the first time since the return of the Noldor to Middle-earth, we lived in peace, even with the _Naugrim_. It was when rumours came that they had found _mithril_ in the deep mines of Moria that Celebrimbor decided to leave the High King's court in Lindon and come here to build his city. And many of the artisans who once belonged to the gild of his father and grandfather followed him. For a while, this was the most sought-after Elven realm aside from the court."

"I remember Gildor mentioning it a few times," said Lindir thoughtfully. "He always seemed so sad when speaking of this place."

"He and Celebrimbor were close," replied Celebrían, "closer than any descendants of the two lines had ever been. Yet it brought him naught but sorrow. And he clutches his own pain as if it were a treasure."

"Is that why he seems so rude most of the time?" asked Lindir. Celebrían smiled at the naïvely blunt question.

"He is not rude," she replied, "he is hurting. Too proud to ask for help, or even to accept it when it is offered freely; but also to afraid of letting the pain go, for that is the only thing he feels he still can have."

"Is he right?" asked Lindir after an extended period of silent contemplation. Celebrían shrugged, her beautiful face clouded with sorrow.

"I know not. I hope I shall never learn what it is like, spending _yéni_ over _yéni_ shrouded in my own pain and sorrow. Mayhap it would make _me_ – or _you_, for that matter – haughty and unpleasant or even cruel, just to keep ourselves from getting hurt again. I cannot say," she rose and extended her hand to Lindir. "Come, little one. Let us walk around the ruins and find out if I still can tell you what we are looking at."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Two thousand years after it had been gone, burnt to its very foundations, he still could see the two-store mansion, made of white stone, near the bank of the Glanduin River, surrounded by trees and tall bushes. The orchard in the back yard, protected by a high stone wall against the cold winds coming from the Hithaeglir. The small, artificial pond in the front yard, with the bronze statue of a long-tressed Wingildi, one of Lord Ossë's water spirits, sitting on a rock in the middle, the water spraying high from her raised hand. All he had to do was to close his eyes, and he could even smell the sweet fragrance of his mother's rose beds.

They had a rather large house for a family of common birth, but there was room enough in Ost-in-Edhil when it was built. And they did not live there alone, either. Under the house Angelimir, his father's older brother had his smithy, where he worked with his aides. Angelimir was a swordsmith and a weapons master, but he did not want to join any of the city's guilds, preferring to work alone. His chambers – and those of his aides, when he happened to have some – were on the ground floor. There he also had a wide, airy room where he taught the younger Elves how to wield the magnificent swords made by his own hands.

Erestor's father, Hargil, was not fond of weapons, and neither was Nimuial, his wife. They were both born after the War of Wrath, during a time of lasting peace, and they saw not the necessity of forging weapons or learning to wield them. They believed the war belonged to the past and that the peace would prevail.

But Angelimir Maglilthadir, Angelimir the Sword-dancer, was different. He had seen the last decade of the horrible war; had watched the lands of his birth crumbling into the Sea, shaking under the wrath of Valar, as a young elfling. The horrible images of death and destruction were imprinted on his young mind too deeply to believe in lasting peace.

So he chose to be prepared. When their parents followed the call of Eönwë and sailed to the West with the Host of Valinor, Angelimir remained in Lindon with the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, the brotherhood to which his father belonged, and he kept his underage brother with him. He said that their parents had no right to take them away from the only home they had ever known. Not unless the Sea called out to them.

'Twas a long and bitter argument, but finally their parents gave in and sailed without them. And now, almost two Ages later, Erestor wished his grandparents had been more… persuasive. Granted, that might have meant that his parents would never meet and he would be never born. But at least his family would not be dead now, either.

Still, he could not help remembering his uncle with admiration. When he closed his eyes, he could see the slender figure of Angelimir, clad in dark leggings and a shadowy grey tunic, dark hair pulled back and bound in a tight ponytail on the nape of his neck. Standing barefooted in the middle of the sunlit fencing room, sea-grey eyes half-closed, hawkish face taut with concentration, a long, marvellously-forged sword held before him with a steady hand.

He could hear his uncle's sharp voice that used to capture the attention not only of his pupils but also that of Erestor who lurked in a shadowy corner, while Angelimir was teaching the young warriors of the nature of a sword.

'If you want your sword to protect you and your loved ones, you must cease thinking of it as a mere weapon,' he used to say. 'You must think of it as a living thing, as part of your own body and soul. You must bond with your sword, become _one_ with it, and it will never betray you. There are many weapons you can wield in need to your defence, but only _one_ sword that would become part of you. 'Tis not easy to find the one and only sword that would utterly belong to you – but if you are lucky enough to find it, you shall be able to stop armies on your own… for a while anyway.'

Many times had Erestor heard his uncle speaking these words – or similar ones. And Angelimir lived up to his own expectation, tenfold. Erestor had been taught and trained by the greatest of the Eldar, by Glorfindel Balrog-slayer and Elrond themselves, and he had seen such giants in battle as Gil-galad or Celeborn or Oropher of the Greenwood, not to mention Gildor Inglorion in full battle rage. But never had he seen anyone being as _one_ with his sword as Angelimir Maglilthadir.

Angelimir, the Sword-dancer. Not without reason was his uncle called thusly. When launching into a fight, Angelimir's moves truly became a dance – music captioned in motion. He became one being with his sword, as if it were a living limb of some sort – a limb that was quick and deadly. The rest of his body only served the sword's purposes, as if it had a mind of its own.

The sword had become the very focus of Angelimir's life. He had no family of his own, though in hindsight Erestor realized that his uncle had male lovers among his sword-brothers. Shield-mates they called each other, forming a brotherhood of warriors in a time of peace, with no families, no children, no other bonds than that of their brotherhood and their trade. And the oath that they had sworn – that they would protect their city and their people at any costs and by any means necessary.

Sometimes Erestor found the similarities between his uncle and himself darkly amusing. Granted, he could never reach Angelimir's skills with the sword, but again, no-one else could. But he had trained and fought with the same single-minded passion through the years of his youth, And he, too, had male lovers only and chose not to have a family, just like his uncle, living for his vengeance alone for almost too long.

Of course, he had been more fortunate. While he was saved upon the battle plain of Dagorlad by the hands of Gildor Inglorion, Angelimir had been overwhelmed and butchered on the steps of the House of the Mírdain, before the great door, defending his Lord 'til his last breath. The few survivors said that Angelimir fought like one possessed by a demon of wrath, the Orcs fleeing from his sword in terror, and that it took the Dark One himself to take him out, ere Celebrimbor could be grappled and captured.

When Elrond's troops finally reached Ost-in-Edhil, the city was already ransacked, and of Angelimir remained naught but a handful of ash and a lump of molten metal. The famous sword, made by his own hands with long, patient labour, could not resist the fire of the One Ring, after all. The remnants of it were found later by the Dwarves of Moria, who _did_ came to Celebrimbor's aid after all, albeit too late. The Dwarven-smiths re-forged it and re-named it and gave it to Erestor when he reached maturity as the only thing that remained of his family.

'Twas to honour Angelimir's memory that Erestor later learned the art of sword-making, even though he could never compare himself with his uncle's skills. Or with that of his own father, for that matter. Much of what the Elven-smiths of Eregion had saved from ancient lore, or re-learned with the help of Dwarves, was irrevocably lost. Besides, Erestor had never felt the calling to become an artisan. He was content to be a warrior for almost twelve centuries; and when he could be a warrior no longer, he unexpectedly discovered the quiet pleasure of acquiring knowledge from his foster father and the Wise of Elrond's house. But while he never ceased missing his parents and little siblings, it was Angelimir, the Sword-dancer, whom he felt closest to his heart.

Which was one more reason to be bewildered about Lindir's steady pursuit of him. The young minstrel despised weapons, could not be made as much as touching them. And yet he sought out the company of one who had been naught but a vengeful warrior for the greatest part of his life.

Erestor had hoped that after the Choosing Ceremony Lindir would finally let go of him. Not that he would not find their passionate encounters most pleasurable – as in everything else, the young minstrel was a quick study in the things of love – but Lindir deserved better. If only he could overcome his youthful infatuation for someone so clearly beneath his own status and find a proper consort! Erestor was prepared to step back as soon as this would happen, and tried to keep his distance from his erstwhile pupil, so that Lindir would not become even more entangled in his own emotions. It was _not_ easy for Erestor, but it was the right thing to do.

Unfortunately, Lindir seemed not to care what was appropriate for someone of his high birth, and he was every bit as stubborn and wilful beneath that deceivingly sweet surface of his as his kinsman, the proud and fierce Lord of Edhellond. Who, on the other hand did _not_ like Lindir's choice of all, and made no secret of his disapproval. Trapped between the two of them, Erestor could only hope that Lady Galadriel would be able to offer him some useful advice. As little as he liked the Lady of the Golden Wood, she was closely related to both parties – and she had her mirror that allowed one to see the future; well, at least the _possible_ future. Erestor hoped he would be granted a glance into it to help sorting out his life.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Celebrían and Lindir found Erestor further down the riverside, silently contemplating the crumbled and charred ruins of what once must have been a house. His face was blank and his whole posture serene, yet he seemed less melancholy than they had feared.

"Is this where your home used to be?" asked Celebrían gently. Erestor nodded.

"I was born right here. We lived on the upper floor. My father had a small private workshop here, though mostly he worked in the House of the Mírdain. He was Lord Celebrimbor's youngest assistant. But sometimes he would have his own projects, and he worked on those here. My mother had her workroom next to his. She was a weaver and made tapestries. I remember one covering a whole wall in my room… it showed a forest, with birds and squirrels. I liked it very much when I was little, and so did my siblings…"

"Who lived on the ground floor?" asked Lindir when Erestor drifted off, lost in memories.

"My uncle Angelimir," replied Erestor.

He did not intend to go into details, but saw Celebrían's sable brow rise in surprise.

"Angelimir the _Sword-dancer_? He was your _uncle_?"

"Did you know him, my Lady?" asked Erestor, equally surprised.

"For a short while only," answered Celebrían thoughtfully. "I used to take lessons in swordfight from him, ere thing between my parents and Celebrimbor took a turn for the worse. I was grieved when I heard of his fate. He was a most extraordinary Elf."

"I barely knew him," Erestor admitted. "I was very young at the fall of Eregion, barely strong enough to lift a hammer meant for a grown Elf, and my father did not want me to have anything to do with weapons. But I admired him and often slipped into his training room to watch him teaching the others in swordfight."

"He was wedded to his own sword," said Celebrían thoughtfully. "Sometimes he seemed as cold and hard as steel, himself. But there were other times when I saw him laughing and jesting with his shield-mates. And I even heard him sing – though his songs were not gentle. He always sang of the great battles of the past."

"He and my father were very different," said Erestor. "My father was an artisan who lived for his trade and Angelimir was a warrior who lived for his sword. And yet they loved each other dearly."

"But did he truly never have a family on his own?" asked Lindir. "Not even in earlier times?"

Erestor shook his head. "Nay. First, he had to raise my father who had been barely more than a toddler when our parents left. And when my father grew up and married, Angelimir stayed with us to protect our family. He never trusted the peace to last and thought it better to remain unbound."

"Yet that means not that _you_ should spent your _yéni_ in loneliness as well," pointed out Lindir, rather unsubtly.

Celebrían saw with some concern Erestor's face suddenly closing like a released scroll.

"I do _not_ think that we should discuss this right now, Lindir," said Elrond's first counsellor coolly. "Or at any time in the future."

Then he turned on his heels and left, without as much as a glance at Lindir's crumpled face.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In the next morrow they continued their journey and crossed the Redhorn Pass without any hindrance. Lindir, deeply hurt by Erestor's cold rejection in the previous evening, never left Celebrían's side and was in a dull mood, despite the beautiful weather and the magnificent sight the mountains offered, glittering in the sunshine like precious gems.

He was growing tired of Erestor's treatment of him. After his Choosing Ceremony, he hoped so much that the ice was finally broken between them. That Erestor would finally realize that he was no longer a child and accept him as his lover… or mayhap, given enough time, even a something more. Yet Erestor still kept him at arm's length, and the young minstrel had to seduce the solitary counsellor every time anew if he wanted to be with him. And even so, often had Lindir's advances been rejected, though never so harshly as in the previous night.

As much as he tried, Lindir could not understand it. True, Erestor had repeatedly said that Lindir deserved better, but for the young minstrel that was a foolish excuse – and reminded him too much of Gildor's pointed remarks. He could not care less. He admired Erestor. He loved Erestor with all his young heart, and he never wanted anyone else. He never would. Why could Erestor not see that?

Lindir was of an age when young, unbound Elves merrily dallied among themselves, seeking out new adventures and gathering knowledge in the gentle art of love. Yet he had given his heart to the elusive Erestor at a very young age, and though he could have many suitors, due to his beauty, sweetness and unique talent, he wanted none of them. But Erestor only let him share his bed during the great festivals, when Lindir got restless and desperate and downright pestering, and he more and more often felt lonely. In the hidden depths of his heart, Lindir began to doubt whether his love would ever be accepted.

Celebrían had watched this awkward dance with growing concern, yet she could find no way to help them. Oh, Lindir was open enough for her counsel, but there was no way she could open _Erestor_'s eyes. Ever since he had been chosen as first counsellor, while still carrying out his duties as Elrond's seneschal, Erestor buried himself in his work even more, had grown distant again, and his eyes became haunted. He was very much as at the time before Lindir had come to Imladris. As if the solemn acceptance of Lindir's maturity, the fact that he had no longer a ward to care for, had taken the light out of his life.

Elrond, too, saw these unpleasant changes in his foster son, and he often talked about it with his Lady, but at the end they had to admit that they could do nothing to help him. And when Erestor mentioned to seek out the Lady Galadriel's counsel, Elrond felt relieved, despite his sometimes tense relationship with Celebrían's mother. If Erestor were granted to look into Galadriel's mirror, it might set him straight – one way or another.

In that, Celebrían agreed with her husband. Yet she was still worried about Lindir. The young minstrel had suffered great losses, too, and at a tender age. He had never known his parents, Aiwendil had been forced to leave him in Imladris when he was barely more than an elfling, and when he finally met his family, he was just not willing to leave the only home he had ever known. Somehow Celebrían had the feeling that the only ones Lindir truly saw as family were Aiwendil – and Erestor.

Lindir had lived through a most unusual childhood without serious damage. He somehow had recovered from the shock of being separated from Aiwendil. But Celebrían feared that the young minstrel would never be able to live without _Erestor_. She just knew not how to make the first counsellor understand this.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

They travelled at a leisurely pace, but even so, it did not take them long to reach the eastern borders of Lothlórien. As their coming had been announced by winged messengers, a patrol of King Amroth's border guard greeted them as soon as they stepped under the shadow of the tall trees that stood arched over a stream and  road that ran beneath the spreading boughs. In the golden light of the early afternoon, the stems of the trees glittered like silver, and there was a hint of fallow gold in their fresh, green leaves.

The quiet Orophin, Haldir's youngest brother was the patrol leader, and among the young archers there was a tall, ash-blond, grey-eyed warrior, whose sharp features seemed very familiar to Erestor. Yet ere he could remember were he might know the young one from, Lindir jumped from his horse and ran to the archer with a delighted smile.

"Malgalad!" he cried. "You are on border patrol already? Who would have thought?"

"I have come of age a few seasons ago," Haldir's eldest replied with the stiff dignity of very young people who barely count as adults. Then he laughed and gave Lindir a quick hug. They had not seen each other since Lindir's Choosing Ceremony, and back then Malgalad had still been a child.

Under normal circumstances such behaviour would have been frowned upon among the Marchwardens of the Golden Wood. But in this case Orophin only grinned at his nephew in a forgiving manner and turned to Elrond and his family to greet them properly.

"Lord Celeborn's aide is waiting for you at Cerin Amroth," he said, after the traditional greetings had been exchanged. "King Amroth also sends his regards and offers the hospitality of his house, though he would understand if you preferred Caras Galadhon, my Lord. 'Tis the home of Lady Celebrían, after all."

"Indeed, I believe it would be more proper if we accepted Lord Celeborn's offer," replied Elrond with a smile. "Besides, we would like to spend some time with our daughter, who certainly stays with her grandparents."

"She does," nodded Orophin. "Now if you will follow me…"

Following the border guard, they rode slowly under the trees. A mile within the wood they finally came upon the Ninglor, the stream that flowed down swiftly from the tree-clad slopes that climbed back towards the Hithaeglir. They heard it splashing over a fall away among the shadows on their right. Its dark, hurrying waters ran across the path before them and joined the Celebrant in a swirl of dim pools among the roots of trees.

"This is the Ninglor," explained Malgalad to Lindir quietly, "the stream most sacred to the woodland folk, who love the rainbow upon its singing falls and the golden flowers that float in its foam when summertime is over. Some of the Faithful, as they call themselves, not even come to King Amroth's house, though he respects their customs greatly and shares their ways of living. Still, a clan of them chose to remain among themselves, and while they allow us to cross their territory to reach the King's house, they would not come forth from their hiding places as long as we are near."

Lindir found this a little strange. But he only knew the Wood-Elves of Eryn Galen, and those were a merry folk that traded with both Dwarves and Men and visited strange places. The young minstrel wondered if he came here alone later, these Elves would show him themselves. Usually he could bring forth even the shyest creatures.

The travellers now crossed the beautiful wooden bridge that arched over the Ninglor and followed the path into the deeper woods, away from the Celebrant, across the northern half of the Naith, in a more or less straight line towards Cerin Amroth. There was no need to hurry, and thus they enjoyed the fresh beauty of the stirring forest, listened to the distant song of invisible birds and talked with the border guards.

So they came, at last, to the green hill of Cerin Amroth, crowned with the two circle of trees, white ones on the outside and golden _mellyrn_ on the inside, and with the royal _mallorn_ in the middle, on which King Amroth's house stood. The trees had grown quite a bit since Erestor and Lindir's last visit in the Golden Wood, and as it was stirring season already, they were clad in the fresh green of new leaves. What is more, here and there on the _mellyrn_ the first golden locks of flowering could be seen.

At the foot of Cerin Amroth Haldir was awaiting them, wearing the fine green and silver garment of a royal chancellor. He greeted Elrond in a friendly manner – there was no need for any formality between them – and repeated King Amroth's offer to be the guest of his house, which Elrond politely refused again, saying that he had much to discuss with the Lord and Lady of Caras Galadhon, but that he would welcome a chance to visit King Amroth later. Haldir showed no surprise; he only smiled and said that in that case he will let them in the capable hands of Lord Celeborn's personal aide.

Erestor glanced with interest at the mysterious Sinda who was staying quietly in the background, clad in a soft, simple gown of shadowy grey. A slender, dark-haired woman she was, with the name of Daeriel(1), which seemed to match the elusive air about her. Erestor remembered her from his previous visit and hoped that he might get the chance to know her better this time.

Daeriel originated from Lindon where she used to work for the royal archives in Gil-galad's times. 'Twas said that she even helped to tutor the children, Elven or mortal, who had been sent to the court to become esquires. 'Twas also said that she had lost her entire family in the war of the Elves and Sauron, but no-one knew aught for sure. The only certain thing to know of her was that she did not want to flee to the West as so many of her friends and associates had done, and that for a while she dwelt in Edhellond.

It had been there that Lord Celeborn met her and learned about her vast knowledge and great archiving skills. So when he and the Lady Galadriel moved back to Lothlórien, after the Battle upon Dagorlad, he asked the calm and competent Sinda to join them as his aide. Daeriel accepted the offer and had lived in Caras Galadhon henceforth.

Now she stepped forth and greeted Elrond respectfully and Celebrían, with whom she had been friends for a long time, in delight. Then she asked them to go with her and the honorary guard of the Galadhrim – tall, white-clad archers with grey cloaks – to the Tree City, where the Lord and the Lady of the Golden Wood already awaited them.

This time even Erestor was to stay in Caras Galadhon, since he had come as a member of Elrond's family. To everyone's surprise, however, Lindir showed no intentions to go with them.

"With your leave, my lord," he said to Elrond with a voice that sounded more than a little unsteady, "I would like to stay here, with my friends." And he looked at Haldir and his family with begging eyes.

"You are welcome in our house, of course," nodded Haldir, glancing questioningly at Elrond.

"But you have promised to sing on the betrothal ceremony!" Elrohir reminded Lindir a little shocked. "And we need to play together before it comes to it, or else we would shame ourselves."

"I will come and seek you out later," promised Lindir. "Just not right now. I… I need to be alone for a while. I cannot mingle with all those unknown people in Caras Galadhon, not now."

Elrond exchanged a look full of understanding with his Lady. They both knew Lindir's sudden mood swings; there was no use forcing the young minstrel to anything he did not want to do. Most of the time Lindir was as pleasant and easy-going as in his childhood, but when he got one of these moods – which usually had to do something with Erestor – there could be no reasoning with him.

"As you wish," the Master of Imladris agreed. "But see that you come over in time to work out the details with Arwen and the ceremony masters."

"_I_ shall see that he does so," said Elladan, shooting Orophin a look that was full of promises; the Lórien Elf answered with a shy grin. "I intend to visit a few friends myself."

Elrond shook his head in a tolerant manner. If Elladan was about to bound with the Elven half of his dual nature, his father was certainly not trying to talk him out of it. And this way he could be sure that Lindir would not forget his obligations.

"Then Lindir may stay," the Lord of Imladris decided, "at least for the time being. Let us go to Caras Galadhon now. We shall meet again when the time comes to prepare ourselves for the ceremony."

TBC

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

(1) "Crowned with Shadow" (Sindarin). The name is courtesy of Claudio.

For unknown reasons, the accented e does not always appear when the file is converted to ff.net. My apologies, I cannot change that.


	19. Chapter 14: The Lady of the Falls

**INNOCENCE**

by Soledad

**Disclaimer:** The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only the Lady Gwenethlin and the individual Lórien Elves belong to me.

**Rating:** PG, for this chapter

Please read Warnings before the Prologue.

**Author's notes:**

**Time:** the year 862, 3rd Age – the end of the stirring season.

**Summary:** Lindir wanders off from Cerin Amroth and has a most interesting encounter – one which brings unexpected events in motion, without his intent or knowledge.

As always, my heartfelt thanks to Larian Elensar for beta reading and to Erunyauve for pointing out some very useful websites to me.

CHAPTER 14: THE LADY OF THE FALLS 

Once Elrond's family departed for Caras Galadhon, Lindir was led to the guest chamber of Haldir's house that, too, was situated on the royal _mallorn_, just on different branches. After the artistic beauty of the halls of Imladris, the room seemed small and simple, with a wood-framed mattress on the floor, an old-fashioned writing desk near the window, and a niche for his clothes, hidden behind a curtain, but Lindir liked it at once. It reminded him of the wooden halls of Rhosgobel, where he spent his early childhood under Radagast's roof.

After having unpacked his bags – which took little enough time, as he had only brought a few change of clothes, several leather-bound parchment books (some for reading, others for taking his own notes) and his wondrous silver flute – he was fetched by Ammalas, Haldir's younger son and escorted to Amroth's house to greet the King of the Golden Wood. This being an informal audience, it took place in the royal study: a pleasant, airy room that was covered with bookshelves on all sides.

Changes come slowly to Elves, even to those of relatively young age, thus King Amroth looked not differently from the image Lindir had in his mind from his last visit. Only the eyes of the young King seemed older and more tired than last time. Apparently, holding his own against his powerful kin in Caras Galadhon had not been an easy task. Also, he wore no longer the rough but comfortable garb of the woodland folk but a long, sleeveless coat of silvery grey and a moss green silk shirt underneath, according to his rank and position.

"Well met and welcome in Lórinand, Lindir of Rhosgobel," he said in his usual, friendly manner. "I am pleased that at least _one_ of the Lady Undómiel's friends has found my house worthy for a stay."

"Master Erestor would have stayed as well," came Lindir to his beloved's defence at once, "and I doubt not that he will come and pay his respects, soon. Yet he has the status of a foster son in Lord Elrond's family, and thus has to stay with them this time."

"And what about you?" asked the King. "Are you not related to the Lady of Caras Galadhon by blood? Would she not expect you to stay with your own kin?"

"That is a kinship I never acknowledged," answered Lindir, and Amroth could barely hide a smile, for the stubborn set of his jaw made the young minstrel more like Gildor Inglorion than ever. "I shall not be forced to keep company with people I feel no closeness with at all, even if we might share the same blood. Besides," he added thoughtfully, "there is much more of the Lindar(1) in me than I have from the ancestors I share with Finarfin's progeny. And even though not related to them in blood, my heart is like that of the woodland folk – I feel closer to trees and birds than to people."

"I presume there would be exceptions, even in that," said Amroth. Lindir nodded.

"There are. But even my love for those who share not my view on the world would not change who I am… or _what_ I am."

"And who _are_ you, young one, pray tell?" the King asked. Lindir thought about it for a moment – then he shrugged.

"There are times when it seems to me as if I were a brood onto myself," he said. "No matter what kind of Elves I meet, they all are different from me, though they seem perfectly at ease with each other or with themselves."

"You must feel lonely, then," said Amroth, knowing that particular feeling all too well. For no matter how much he tried to blend in with his Silvan subjects, his heritage made him different – and lonely. He often asked himself what it would take for the woodland folk to see him as one of their own. And if his union with the Lady Undómiel, forged for the good of the Golden Wood, would make his position easier or more difficult among his subjects.

"Sometimes I _am_ lonely," admitted Lindir, "and even a little lost. I often ask myself whether I would feel more at ease here… or someplace where the Sea is near. My heart is torn between the waves and the trees, and where I live now, I cannot have either. Not enough of either of them, that is," he added, sending an apologetic thought to the wise and ancient trees of Imladris.

"Then why do you remain in Imladris?" asked Amroth, though he had the feeling that he knew the answer… or, at least, part of it. "Certainly, Lord Gildor would be glad to have you in his home, and so would I, should you not wish to dwell in Caras Galadhon. A minstrel like you is born only once in every Age – you would be welcome everywhere."

"But nowhere would I be as free as I am in Imladris," said Lindir. "Free to be who and what I wish to be, to do what suits me best, without obligations that are against my nature. Imladris has been my home for a very long time, and I am safe there as I would not be anywhere else. As I touch no weapons, not even to my own defence. My unwillingness – or inability – to take a life would have killed me long ago if not for Lord Elrond's protection."

Amroth looked at him in surprise. Like everyone else, the King of Lórien did not think Lindir capable of understanding his own situation so completely.

"You have grown up since we last met, young one," said Amroth, letting his own surprise show a little. Lindir shrugged again.

"I might still be a child at heart, my Lord, as many say, but regardless what they think of me, I am no fool. I very well know that Arda Marred has no room for the likes of me any longer, and I also know that Master Aiwendil, though meaning well, made a big mistake when shaping me to become the person I am. Yet in Imladris I can forget that I am out of my true time. In Lord Elrond's house I can pretend to _belong_."

"And yet you do not – not truly, do you?" asked the King of Lórien gently. Just as _he_ could never truly become one of the Faithful. Sometimes he asked himself how Thranduil and his whole family were able to merge with their people so completely, while he failed himself to do so.

"I _could_ belong, if the one who could anchor me would cease running from me," answered Lindir sadly. "Had I a bond with him, I could heal the wounds of his _fëa_, wounds that he had carried for too long. And he could heal my loneliness. But he is so full of fear, thinks so little of himself, and cannot see that we were meant for each other."

"If he rejects love, given freely by a pure heart, then he is an utter fool," said Amroth in sorrow. "I wish I had someone that loved me the way you love that foolish _Golodh_. I respect and admire the Lady Undómiel, and this union is most important for the two realms of the Golden Wood – yet I still cannot help but wonder whether we are making a mistake."

"There are times when even Elves cannot follow the call of their hearts alone, or so I am taught," said Lindir. "Mayhap the love you are lacking now, my Lord, will grow between the two of you in time."

"I hope so," Amroth sighed. "By the Lady Palúrien, I hope so. Or else our existence would be a cold and barren one."

For a while, there was silence in the King's study. Then Amroth placed a gentle hand upon the young minstrel's shoulder.

"Is that the true reason you chose to stay with us? To be alone with your thoughts and feelings and sort them out?"

Lindir nodded. "I need to decide if I should go on with my pursuit – or seek out a different path. I am growing tired of being pushed away."

Amroth looked at the younger Elf in sympathy. "I hope you find the peace of your mind among us. Lady Gwenethlin offered to look after your needs while you are staying with us, and should you want anything from me, you only need to ask Ammalas. He is my aide now and will see that you meet me if you want."

"I would never take up your precious time, my Lord King," protested Lindir, embarrassed. In truth, he had always liked the young King who did not treat him as a child, but he thought it unseemly to bother someone so important and so busy. But Amroth only smiled; it was a somewhat sad smile.

"Believe me, the company of a true minstrel would always be welcome. My duties as the King of Lórinand are not always pleasant – 'tis a lonely life I lead, and friends are a rare and precious gift for a king."

"Are you offering me your friendship, my Lord?" asked Lindir in awe. As much as people loved him back in Imladris, he had very few friends, mostly among the young children who did not mind his naïveté and blunt manners. For the adults, he still counted a child, despite his officially declared maturity.

Amroth tilted his head to one side, birdlike, and smiled again – this time without that faint shadow of sadness. "I believe I am. Unless you find me unworthy of such gift."

Lindir became beet red in an instant. Never in his whole life had he felt so profoundly embarrassed. Not even when he had cluelessly walked out into Celebrían's garden, only to realize that "sampling the roses" could have very different meanings in the Lord and Lady's vocabulary…

"My Lord, if my manners were lacking, I…" he began nervously, regretting, not for the first time, that what Lord Elrond called _proper_ manners seemed to elude him, no matter how hard he tried. But Amroth interrupted him with a smile and a raised hand.

"'Twas only a jest, Lindir. Not a very good one, I admit, but the blame for that is all mine. Now, you need not to call me 'Lord', if you agree to be friends with me. You are not my subject, nor are you of lower birth – on the contrary, I am told. And friends call each other by name."

"That… that will require some getting used to," admitted Lindir, his face still bright red from embarrassment. He might have been rightly accused of improper behaviour at times, but a king was a king nevertheless.

"I know," Amroth nodded, "but believe me, you will be doing me a favour. 'Tis tiring to be King all the time."

They both laughed, and for a moment, Lindir felt completely at ease. He hoped the Lady Arwen would find King Amroth as good a company as himself. He hoped they would be happy together, despite the circumstances that had led to their union. They both deserved to be happy.

The conversation was interrupted by Ammalas, who needed to talk to his King about some urgent matters. Lindir took his leave from Amroth and descended the royal _mallorn_, taking naught else but his flute with him. He went nowhere without the precious instrument that was his only remaining link to Radagast and to a childhood spent in peace and innocent joy, under the care of the grumpy old wizard.

For a while, he walked around on the green mound of Cerin Amroth, enjoying the softness of the spring grass under his bare feet, humming to himself and to the golden stars of _elanor_ and pale green bells of _niphredil_ that were in full bloom already. But after some time, even the few Elves passing by had become too burdensome a company. He wanted to be alone. Alone with the old trees, the soft breeze and the unseen birds of the forest, so that he could let his troubled heart and mind rest.

Thus he wandered off from Cerin Amroth, unconsciously retracing the path they had come just hours earlier, 'til he finally reached the banks of the Ninglor. It seemed to him as if the merrily running water had called to him, called him there. He climbed down the steep bank, sat cross-legged upon the grass and listened to the singing of the rainbow-crowned falls. It was incredibly peaceful here, and as he watched the golden flowers floating in the Ninglor's foam, it seemed to him as if the burden had been lifted from his heart a little, and he could breathe more easily. After a while, a wordless song arose from the depths of his heart and merged seamlessly with the music of the waterfalls; and for the first time in a very long while, he was at peace.

He knew not how long he had been sitting there, singing with the waters and the light breeze, his eyes closed and his heart wide open to let in the healing powers of the earth and the comforting whispers of the ancient trees. Yet after some time he felt that he was no longer alone, and he looked up and saw a woman approaching from the other side of the stream, gracefully as a light-footed deer.

She was not as tall as the daughters of the Noldor, to whom Lindir had grown accustomed during his centuries in Imladris. Slender and supple and strong as a young tree, she much more reminded him of the Silvan maidens of the Greenwood. She wore a long, pale gown, adorned on the seam and on the upper arms with broad, brightly-coloured woollen strips, woven with intricate patterns. Her loose, sleeveless surcoat was light brown and open on both sides, down to her hips, in old Silvan fashion. Her rich brown hair, unbraided but many individual locks were decorated with small wooden pearls, fell in soft waves beyond her knees and its colour had already begun to change to a lighter brown with the approach of spring. It was held together by a thin silver circle upon her brow.

Very young she seemed, and her heart-shaped face, though it could not be compared with the elegant beauty of the Lady Lalaith and even less with that of Arwen Undómiel, was gentle and lovely nonetheless. But in her bright, chestnut-like eyes there was time-ripened wisdom and a knowledge deeper than the ancient lore of the Noldor – a wisdom that came from the dark heart of the Earth itself.

She crossed the bridge and Lindir rose in respect and bowed, for indeed, she reminded him of the Wise Women of the woodland folk – the Lady Gwenethlin, for one, or Lady Lálisin, the Queen of the Greenwood, whom he had met a few times during his childhood. The woman smiled and inclined her head in greeting.

"Who are you, young one?" she asked in her soft voice, and Lindir felt not like protesting. For despite all her youthful loveliness, he could feel that this woman was no young maiden. She had an invisible aura of authority that only age and power could give to a person. "I have never seen you in these woods before."

"This is only my second time in Lórinand," answered Lindir, instinctively choosing the older name of the Golden Wood, out of respect toward its inhabitants of old. "And during my first stay, I mostly kept company with the minstrels."

"You _are_ one," the Silvan lady said; it was not a question. "Do you have a name, young minstrel?"

"Lindir," he answered. "Lindir of Rhosgobel."

"Lindir – 'one-who-sings'," she nodded. "The name suits you. I have heard your voice from afar, from my house near the falls. I found great delight in your singing."

"Then I am honoured, my Lady, as I am told that the woodland folk here seldom show themselves to strangers," said Lindir. "May I ask your name and why you changed your customs for me?"

"I am called Nimrodel," she answered. "And as I already told you, I live here, on the other side of the stream. My house is upon one of those old beeches; though I doubt that you would find it without help. But it was your singing that called me forth from the solitude of my home. I wanted to meet the minstrel who has been granted such a rare gift."

Lindir blushed profoundly, and not out of modesty alone, though he was not used to such open admiration and so many compliments. In Imladris, people took his talent more or less for granted, as they were used to it, and though he was beloved by all, respect was not something he was given often.

But more than that, the name of Nimrodel was not entirely unknown for him. Many tales were woven around the elusive Lady of the woodland folk, yet he only knew one person who had ever seen her face to face, the Lady Gwenethlin, Haldir's mother. That the Lady of the Falls would come forth, only to meet an unknown and rather unimportant minstrel from a far-away valley, was unheard of… and the greatest compliment that could have been made to him.

"The _Lady_ Nimrodel?" he asked with great respect. "I am truly honoured then. Never had I thought that the Princess of the Silvan folk could find delight in my humble talent."

But Nimrodel only laughed, and her laughter was soft as the spring rain. "If you ever truly lived with Aiwendil Bird-lover, you would know that the Faithful had no Kings, nor Princes. Some of us kept the old ways, even after the Years of Darkness, when the others yielded to the rule of Sindarin princes."

"Is that the reason why your people avoid not Caras Galadhon only but the realm of King Amroth, too?" Lindir asked. "Do you feel that the others of your folk have betrayed their old ways?"

"Once all these forests belonged to the Faithful," she answered with a melancholy smile; "and the great forests reached from the Ash Mountains 'til the Blue Mountains – and beyond. In those times, a squirrel could travel on the treetops across all Middle-earth – and so could we. Ere the _Golodh_ began their war with the Dark One, who then murdered our trees with fire and poison."

"'Twas not the fault of the Noldor that the great forests had to burn," said Lindir. "Had they not come back from the West, mayhap we all would be _yrch_ today, twisted to hideous monsters in the pits of Utumno."

"Instead we have become strangers in what once used to belong to us," she replied, her gentle eyes growing cold. "The _Golodh_ intrude our forests, what is still left of them, and take our trees to build their houses on the branches. They make the forest to something it was never meant to be."

Lindir looked at her in surprise. "I fear I cannot see what you mean, my Lady. Lórinand seems not to have changed since my first visit, and that was two hundred years ago. Which is a much longer time for the woods than it is for an Elf."

"_That_ is what I mean," Nimrodel answered. "Life means change, young one; the changing of seasons, of shapes, colours and tastes. Yet the forest seems to be frozen and had been that way for hundreds and hundreds of years. Not where I live, or the others of my kind. The outskirts of the woods change with time, as it has been since this part of Arda took shape. But the forests around Caras Galadhon – they just _are_. They stand there and do not speak to us any longer. They have fallen into a dream from which there is no awakening – unless in death itself."

"And you believe the Noldor did this to the trees?" asked Lindir with a frown.

"I know the magic of old that has lingered in water and soul, earth and tree, fire and wind from the dawn of time," said Nimrodel. "When the stirring season comes, I can feel that magic in every green leaf that unfolds by springtime. I can hear the giggle of the green saps as they crawl upwards under the bark of each tree. Yet I can also feel some other power in the forests; one that is not natural to our woods. And where it is strongest, the trees fall in silence."

"Caras Galadhon?" risked Lindir the tentative question. Nimrodel nodded.

"I have never been to the Tree City myself," she said, "but the Lady Gwenethlin has. Once in every _yén_, she travels to those forests, to see how the trees are doing. The _mellyrn_ have never spoken to our people, of course, as they are strangers to our forests, and we cannot understand their tongue. But at least they used to talk among themselves in earlier times. Now they all are fallen quiet, save the ones upon Cerin Amroth, and even their dreams are elusive and strange, as if they were under some sort of spell that has removed them from the changes of time." She gave Lindir a questioning glance. "What are the trees like in the West, were you come from?

"There are no _mellyrn_ in Imladris," answered Lindir thoughtfully; "but the trees are old, very old. Some of them, like the Great Oak, had already been there, in full growth, when Lord Elrond found the valley, thousands of years ago. They are sleepy sometimes, more so when the Lady Celebrían is not at home to talk to them, but they seldom refuse to speak to me. Although the trees of the Greenwood were certainly a lot more talkative," he added.

"The Greenwood has been as-yet untouched by the greedy hands of the _Golodh_," said Nimrodel, " and I hope its King will see that it remains the way. After all, he wedded one of us and respects our ways. No other stranger has ever done so."

"King Amroth does," said Lindir, instinctively defensive of his new friend.

"He _tries_," replied Nimrodel, "I have to give him that. But his great-uncle, the Lord of Caras Galadhon, has abandoned the old ways thousands of years ago, when he married a Princess of the _Golodh_. And Amroth's mother, though she was one of us, died too young, ere she could teach her son the ways of the Faithful. What is more, unlike Thranduil, he does not truly have the strength to keep the intruders out of our woods."

"You have mentioned the Faithful several times by now, my Lady," said Lindir. "Yet I still do not know whom you mean with that. Are all Wood-Elves considered Faithful?"

"Nay," answered Nimrodel. "The Faithful are those who refused to leave the lands of their birth when Aldaron(2), the Lord of Forests, called the Quendi to follow him to the West. Those of our clans who had not been taken by the Hunter(3) before the rising of Ithil and Anor, wandered off to find a safer dwelling. Those led by Nurwë found it in what is the Greenwood now, while the others, whose chieftain was Morwë, settled down in the White Mountains. Some of them – quite a great number, in fact – merged with those Nandor Elves who had turned back from their westward journey and became the Silvan folk."

"Oh, said Lindir, finally putting together the seemingly random pieces, "you are one of the Avari then? I thought there were no more of them in Middle-earth."

"We do not accept the names the _Golodh_ gave us," replied Nimrodel, anger burning in her eyes. "But if you want to use that name, then yea, I _am_ one of the Avari, and I am proud of it. Why should I be ashamed of what I am? My ancestors did not run under the wings of the Valar and did not leave, pouting, when the Valar failed to protect them as they had promised. Nor were our people the ones who slew their own kin three times, in pursuit of some gemstones. And yet they dare to call us Moriquendi! We might not have seen the Light of the Two Trees, but at least our _hearts_ are not dark; nor have our hands been soiled with the blood of our own people."

"Those who have committed hideous crimes against their own are no longer among us," pointed out Lindir. "And their children have fought long and hard to atone for the sins of their fathers."

"_One_ of them is still here," replied Nimrodel, "and whatever powers she wields, it turns our forests into a place that is alien to us. So far, this… influence only encircles Caras Galadhon, but it is slowly leaking out into the other parts of the wood already, and we know not how to stop it. Our strength comes from the wet soil, the trees, the waters and the winds – when our own woods become estranged from us, there is naught left we could turn for strength."

For a moment, she looked at the rainbows upon the waterfalls with sorrow. Then she sighed and seemed to shake off her bad mood.

"We shall see what can be done," she said. "For now, at least these parts of the wood are still healthy and full of strength – and now that springtime is coming, our strength, too, will be renewed. Have you ever wished to witness the Awakening Festival of the Faithful, young minstrel? We do not invite strangers to our ceremonies, but with you, I am willing to make an exception… if you agree to sing to us."

Lindir hesitated. An invitation like that was spoken once in a lifetime of an Elf, and he would have loved to accept it, but he had other obligations already. And regardless of what some might think of him, he took his duties very seriously.

"'Twould be a great honour for me, my Lady," he said, "but I am already expected to sing on King Amroth's betrothal ceremony. I gave my promise and cannot let him and the Lady Undómiel down."

"There is no need for that," said Nimrodel, "as the betrothal will not take place any sooner than in twelve days. Our Festival starts tonight and lasts six days, not more."

"You know about the betrothal?" asked Lindir in surprise. Nimrodel shrugged.

"I have been invited. King Amroth means it when he says he would like to keep good relations with _all_ Quendi who live between his borders. Not that we would accept his rule," she added with a wicked grin, "but we let him believe that those are actually _his_ borders, not ours."

Lindir laughed, not concerned about his new friend at all. He could feel the genuine fondness in the Lady's voice and knew the Avari – the _Faithful_, he corrected himself – would not turn against the young King, unless Amroth would do something utterly foolish. Which was rather unlikely, knowing him.

"Are you coming to the ceremony?" the young minstrel asked.

"I might," answered Nimrodel lightly, "if only for the chance to irritate the _Golodh_ Lady of Caras Galadhon. She should not think that we fear her, just because we choose to avoid her company. Besides, if I had to choose between her and King Amroth, I would choose Amroth every time. At least he respects us and leaves us alone."

"In that case I gratefully accept," said Lindir, already excited about the chance to take part in a genuine Avari festival. Nimrodel smiled.

"Then come with me and see what no stranger has seen, ever since our people moved to the Golden Wood," she said.

She extended her hand and Lindir took it, following her happily, forgetting everything else – even to leave a message for his hosts.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As the whole Naith was buzzing with preparations for the upcoming great feast – the ceremony was to be held in Cerin Amroth – no-one noticed Lindir's disappearance 'til the evening meal. This was traditionally served in the open, as the weather was pleasant and the Elves of Lórien preferred to spend most of their time outdoors, in the company of each other and the trees.

The servants of Amroth's house built up the long tables upon sawn rings of old trunks in no time, so that the maidens could cover them with the fine green cloths that had a woven pattern of yellow and white flowers along the seams, as it was springtime. Were it summer they had straw-coloured ones, while in autumn and in the fading season brown ones with a pattern of yellow and red leaves and in winter white ones adorned with the shapes of forest animals were used.

Once the tables were all covered, the maidens started carrying out the dishes and other eating utensils. The red earthenware dishes, twice-burned and decorated with the images of plants and animals, had been made by a small colony of the Faithful and traded for other wares made by the folk of the Naith; for ropes made of _hithlain_, for example, or those famous grey clothes the secrets of whose making was known to the Nandor Elves alone. Only the spoons, forks and knives were made of metal – of silver, to be more accurate, and they found their way here through the travel routes to the Greenwood.

The kitchens – low wooden pavilions, situated on the ground rather than on the treetops – were like an anthill, too. One _could_ cook in the tree-houses, of course, on small, closed iron ovens filled with charcoal, if secrecy was needed. But in peacetime like this, the inhabitants of the Naith – including the King and his court – preferred the common kitchens and the common tables. The Elves of Cerin Amroth all had kitchen duty for a certain amount of time  in each season, and the King himself was no exception, even though the common opinion stated that cooking was _not_ one of Amroth's special talents. Those who had visited the Greenwood for some reason, often wished that their King had more in common with his kinsman in this area, as King Thranduil counted as one of the most excellent cooks in all Elven realms, even if nowadays royal duties seldom allowed him to put on the apron.

On this particular evening, however, some less important Elves had volunteered for kitchen duty, so that Amroth and his court could attend more important matters – like their guests. Many visitors from other realms were expected to witness the union of two of the most important Elven Houses of this Age, and the Lady Gwenethlin, still the chatelaine of Amroth's court, had to keep an eye on them and on all the preparations. Gildor Inglorion and his Wandering Company had already arrived, and though the Lord of Edhellond stayed in Caras Galadhon, many of the Company walked over to Cerin Amroth, to greet old friends, be reunited with old lovers – or find new ones for the upcoming Spring Festival.

Therefore it was no surprise for anyone when Elladan, too, returned shortly before sunset, just when the King and his court took their customary places at one of the tables. He was simply greeted by the Elf standing closest and told to take a seat next to Orophin. It had been an open secret for a hundred years or so that Elrond's eldest had a fleeting affair with the rather shy Marchwarden, on and off as their respective duties allowed. Orophin never left Lórinand, but Elladan had come to visit him several times during the recent decades, and his visits usually lasted a few moons – moons that he spent in Cerin Amroth rather than in Caras Galadhon.

At first this caused a little bewilderment in both realms, and it was said that the Lady Galadriel did not approve, nor did she hesitate to make her grandson well aware of her disapproval. The Lord Celeborn, however, apparently had no worries about the issue, and thus Elladan was left alone to do as he pleased. In truth, his parents were even relieved that his interests turned to Elves for a change, even though it was likely to be a short-lived change. And Orophin was not the desired bonding partner for someone of such high birth anyway. Nor did he wish to bind his life to Elladan forever, truth be told.

Yet for the moment they both seemed content enough with what they had, and the folk of both Cerin Amroth and Caras Galadhon accepted it. Orophin was careful enough to avoid the Tree City, but Elladan moved freely back and forth between the two realms and was welcome in both. So nobody did as much as raise an eyebrow when he indeed sat down next to Orophin, draping a loose arm around the Marchwarden's waist and exchanging a light kiss with him before reaching for the wine cup. They usually were less demonstrative with their attraction, but it had been a long time since they last met, so everyone benevolently ignored the little display.

The food was excellent, Elladan found, perhaps even better than in his grandparents' court. According to the season of the _loa_, roasted rabbits and pheasants were served flavoured with sage, decorated with hard boiled eggs, followed by honey cakes and fresh strawberries. Everyone was clad in light green and pale yellow, and the women wore the faint scent of jasmine and roses. Though Anor was still visible over the western horizon, gracefully-shaped beeswax candles – gold, green and yellow ones – were already burning on the tables, in beautifully crafted silver candlesticks adorned with amethysts, aquamarines and bloodstones. These candlesticks were part of Amroth's inheritance, among the few items his father was able to rescue from Doriath before its destruction.

Also, on each table were two baskets, made of young willow twigs, filled with soil and with fresh flowers of the new _loa_. No-one would think of picking the flowers and let them die in mere days, of course. They were carefully and lovingly unearthed with the roots, re-planted in the flower-baskets during a small ritual and brought to the tables in a merry procession. Some of these customs were known in Imladris, too, as the Lady Celebrían brought them with her from the Golden Wood, but Elladan never found them as natural as they were in Lórien, though he willingly joined them every time.

"Today's cook has truly outdone himself," he said, patting his stomach contently. "That sauce to the meat, made of the preserved berries from the last _hrív_, was truly an inspired idea."

Orophin grinned. "I shall forward the compliment to Rúmil. Ever since he parted ways with the Iron Maiden of Caras Galadhon, his whole passion has gone into his cooking – much to everyone's delight, though we do feel sorry for him. A little."

"To tell the truth, I was going to ask you about that parting," said Elladan with a frown. "I have met Calaglinel in Grandfather's court, but she was elusive to downright rudeness. What happened? They seemed happy enough last time when I visited the Golden Wood."

Orophin sighed. "It has been coming for a long time, I deem. Relations between the two realms have remained… tense, to put it mildly, despite the planned union of the two Houses. Lord Celeborn is trying to balance between King Amroth and his own Lady, but as both are stubborn and strong willed, this is not an easy task."

"I can imagine," Elladan loved his grandmother dearly, but even he had experienced the formidable side of the Lady Galadriel, which made him develop a healthy respect towards her. Orophin nodded.

"Well, Rúmil is not easy to frighten, and he even dared to visit his lady in Caras Galadhon a few times – only to find that Calaglinel was a very different person at home. Tempers ran high between the two of them, and in the end Calaglinel decided that having a relationship with someone from King Amroth's court would be betrayal against the Lady Galadriel. Thus she ended it – as cold and simple as it sounds."

"Rúmil was devastated, I deem," said Elladan. Orophin nodded again.

"Of course. For reasons I cannot fathom, he was very much in love and would even wed the Iron Maiden, had she consented. They do not say 'love is blind' without a reason. But to be honest, the rest of the family was quite relieved."

"_Relieved?_" repeated Elladan in surprise. It was a rare occasion that his lover would talk so much about family matters – that he would talk so much to begin with – but maybe Orophin felt the need to finally get these things off his chest, and simply decided to trust him. "Why ever would you be relieved?"

"I assume you have heard the tale of Calaglinel?" asked Orophin. Elladan nodded and he continued. "We were afraid that things between her and Rúmil would end badly all the time. No matter how hard she fought to overcome her upbringing, Calaglinel _was_ raised by _yrch_, after all – and that left behind traces that cannot be wiped away. She is loyal, she is passionate, she is fierce, that is true; but in a cold way. I very much doubt that she can truly _feel_ love. And our mother fears the same. 'Tis not her fault, but it cannot be helped, just as a severed limb cannot be grown back."

"Or just as Lindir will never be aught else but a child in his heart," added Elladan with a fond smile. Then he looked around the colourful circle of Elves sitting at the tables, searching for the young minstrel. "Speaking of which, where _is_ Lindir anyway? I wanted to look after him, to make sure he is all right. Mother says he is in a rather fragile state of mind right now."

"Strange," Orophin, too, looked around, but could not find Lindir either. "He should be here, like everyone else. Wait here for a moment, I shall ask the guards if any of them have seen him."

He left in hurry, staying away for quite some time, and when he returned, his fair face was clouded with concern.

"It seems that no-one has seen him after he went to meet our King, shortly after your arrival," he said. "Apparently he was seen walking towards the Ninglor in the early afternoon, but it is as if he had disappeared into thin air afterwards."

"The Ninglor?" That sounds like Lindir, all right," said Elladan. "He loves sitting at waterfalls – those are his favourite hiding places back home. And when he has one of these strange moods, he usually hides very well. Once he managed to evade us for nineteen days, though the entire valley was looking for him."

"That is all nice and good," replied Orophin, clearly worried, "but the woods beyond the Ninglor belong to the Faithful, and they do not like to be disturbed."

"Who are the Faithful?" asked Elladan, having no knowledge of the oldest dwellers of the Golden Wood either.

"The Old Clans," explained Orophin. "The ones your kind calls the Avari. Some of them are still there, hiding in the deep woods, following the old ways. The mother of our mother was one of them, and so was the mother of King Amroth. We know not how many of them are still out there – most of them have followed King Oropher to the North, back in the Second Age, 'tis said, others have merged with the Silvan folk, so their numbers cannot be too high. But they are very protective of their territory, and we respect that."

"I cannot believe that they would harm someone like Lindir, though," shook his head Elladan. "They are Elves, after all, just like ourselves, and _everybody_ likes Lindir. Even the Dwarves who sometimes visit Imladris are charmed by him."

"I do not think they would harm him, either," said Orophin. "But these are the days when they celebrate the awakening of the earth after her winter slumber, and they do not tolerate intruders during one of their festivals. They might confuse Lindir, leading him with strange songs and false voices deep into the woods and then abandon him there so that he would not disturb their rituals. Such things are known to happen, so we stay away from their part of the wood in these days. But Lindir is not familiar with the paths of our forests – he could get lost and come to serious harm by accident."

"Surely the trees would aid him," said Elladan. "He is almost a Wood-Elf in his heart; I have to see any tree or bird or beast yet that would not help him, were he in need."

Orophin shook his head. "I fear you do not understand. The trees beyond the Ninglor are utterly loyal to the Faithful. They would refuse to talk even to us, should they feel the need to protect them. They surely would not talk to a stranger, not even one as charming as Lindir."

"This is dire news," said Elladan, slowly becoming worried himself. "Lindir knows his way around a forest, but he cannot protect himself against any attack, not even against that of some wild beast. And should any harm come to him, not only would Gildor Inglorion skin us all alive, but we could also count on Aiwendil's wrath. An enraged wizard is not something I would want to see anytime soon."

"Nor would I," Orophin agreed. "Yet at the moment I am more concerned about Lindir's safety than about my own hide. We should ask my mother what to do. She is the only one who has regular contact with the Faithful; she might have a word of advice for us."

Elladan found that a good idea, and so they sought out the Lady Gwenethlin, who listened to them patiently. When Orophin had told her all that he knew, she smiled and asked, "Have you asked the birds already?"

"The birds?" repeated Orophin blandly. His mother laughed.

"Young Lindir was raised by Aiwendil. The trees might remain silent about his whereabouts, but the birds, beloved by the Brown Wizard, will not. After all, Lindir is practically his son; and the young one has learnt the speech of the birds before learning those of Elves and Men."

"That is true," Elladan agreed. "But where would we find the right bird to send out looking for him?"

Lady Gwenethlin smiled. "In that, I can come to your aid," she said and gave a short, melodic whistle akin to that of a songbird.

A few heartbeats later a small finch appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and sat on her outstretched hand. The lady spoke to the little bird in some arcane dialect that sounded vaguely like the Silvan tongue but was much older than that. The finch listened to her, tiny head tilted to one side, small, round eyes glittering in the fading sunlight. Then it unfolded its wings and flew away.

Lady Gwenethlin turned to her son and his lover again.

"My little friend will look for young Lindir," she said, "and be assured that she will find him, wherever he might be hiding. Be comforted now and forget your worries – nothing will happen to the minstrel. I promise."

"Do you have the power to make such promise, my Lady?" asked Elladan, still very much concerned. He did trust Orophin's mother, but he had promised to look after Lindir, and he did not like the fact that he could not keep his promise.

"I do," Lady Gwenethlin replied simply and returned to her table. It seemed that the issue was closed for her – for the time being anyway.

Orophin laid his hand upon Elladan's forearm in a gesture that was both comforting and affectionate. At times like this he felt keenly how much younger the Peredhel was and what a sheltered life he led in the well-protected valley of Imladris.

"I understand your concern," the Marchwarden said, "but I ask you to trust Mother. If she says that Lindir will be fine, then he _will_ be fine. Mother has sufficient authority, even among the Faithful. But if it eases your heart, we can go to the Ninglor ourselves and look for the young one."

"In truth, I hoped to spend this night in a more pleasurable manner," murmured Elladan ruefully, "yet I cannot rest while Lindir is still missing. Let us go to the Ninglor and search, if you do not mind."

"Not at all," replied Orophin good-naturedly. "We still shall have a walk under the stars, at the singing waters, even if we choose to waste such a beautiful night with futile search."

He brought two of the famous shadow-grey cloaks of Lórien that made the wearer almost invisible among the trees – one for himself and one for Elladan – and soon, they were walking the same path Lindir had chosen in the early afternoon.

The forest was peaceful and quiet, aside from the very faint echo of singing that came from afar, beyond the stream. Even in the dark, it was easy for Orophin's well-trained eyes to trace Lindir's light footsteps, and soon they found the place where the young minstrel had been sitting for a while on the Ninglor's bank.

"He seems to have spent quite some time here," said Orophin. "The grass has had no time yet to recover and still shows the contours of his legs and rear. At least several hours, I would guess."

"He probably watched the waterfalls or listened to their music," answered Elladan. "He does that all the time at home. But where could he have gone from here?"

Orophin shrugged. "His track leads to the bridge. I presume he crossed it."

"Then so should we," urged Elladan. "We should find him ere he gets in any trouble."

"Elladan," Orophin sighed, "he has been gone for hours. If there is any trouble, he has already found it. And crossing the bridge tonight would _not_ be a good idea, trust me. The Faithful _might_ have tolerated Lindir, for he is quite unique in his way, but they surely would _not_ tolerate you. Or even me, for that matter."

"I would listen to him, _Golodh_, if I were you," said a voice from some distance, in a heavily accented Silvan dialect. "He knows what he is talking about. Cross the bridge and you will find some serious trouble. That I can promise."

Elladan felt his anger raising, and was just about to give a not too friendly answer. Orophin, however, obviously recognized the voice, for he grabbed Elladan's arm, holding him bodily back from confronting the invisible guardians.

"Our apologies, Rhimdir(4)," he called out to the dark figure suddenly appearing at the foot of the bridge; then he acknowledged the presence of a second guard with a nod, "Amaldor. We meant not to intrude."

"Then do not so," replied one of the guards curtly. They were still so much hidden in the shadows that it was hard to know which one.

"I fear that is not so easy," said Elladan between clenched teeth. "We are looking for a young minstrel who is missing. We need to find him."

"You can end your search," said the other guard. "Your lost minstrel has been found. In fact, he was not lost for a moment. He was invited to witness our Awakening Festival – by the Lady Nimrodel herself. He is safe and sound and seems to enjoy himself greatly."

"And no-one of you thought of sending a message to Amroth's court where people are worried sick about him?" asked Elladan sharply.

The guard shrugged. "That is not our concern. He is old enough to think of such things himself – if he did not, he must have a reason for it. You, on the other hand, should leave now."

And with that, both guards merged into the shadows again. There could be no doubt, though, that they were watching the bridge with suspicious eyes.

"We better listen," whispered Orophin, dragging his lover back towards Cerin Amroth. "Now that we know Lindir is safe, we could perhaps put your earlier plans for tonight to good use."

Though still angry a little with the Avari guards, Elladan laughed and followed the Marchwarden back to Amroth's dwellings. The night was still young, after all, mild and full of stars. There were better things to do than worrying uselessly.

TBC

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

End notes:

(1) The Singers. An alternate name for the Teleri.

(2) Sindarin name of the Vala Oromë.

(3) Morgoth. Apparently, he roamed the dark forests of Middle-earth before the rising of the Moon and the Sun, abducting Elves, whom he later twisted to Orcs. The shape he took is supposed to be a deceit, so that the Elves would fear Oromë, should he find them.

(4) According to _HoME 7 – The Treason of Isengard_, Rhimdir was an old, rejected name for Rúmil and Amaldor one for Amroth. I use these names for Avari as they are an old and conservative folk.


	20. Chapter 15: Through the Looking Glass

**INNOCENCE**

by Soledad

**Disclaimer:** The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only Erestor's family belongs to me.

**Rating:** PG for this chapter.

Please read Warnings before the Prologue.

**Author's notes:**

**Time:** the year 862, 3rd Age

**Summary:** Seeking guidance, Erestor is granted a look into Galadriel's Mirror. What he sees makes him realize the mistake he has made concerning Lindir.

**Author's note:** I usually do not write movieverse fics or characters. This time, though, I have borrowed a few of the extras as I wanted to give a face and a name to the random Lórien characters. Galadriel, however, has no movie looks. She looks exactly like she does on that Alan Lee painting.

As usual, my heartfelt thanks to Larian Elensar for beta reading.

CHAPTER 15: THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS 

At the same time, Erestor was sitting with Saelbeth, the personal aide of the Lady Galadriel, high upon a _talan_ in Caras Galadhon. The _talan_ was situated on the same _mallorn_ as the Lord Celeborn's house, just sideways, on a lower branch; the advisor's chambers were comfortable but simple, like Erestor's rooms back in Imladris. The two of them had similar tastes, despite the great difference of age and origins.

After the Lord and the Lady, Saelbeth was probably the oldest Elf in Caras Galadhon, born in the First Age, shortly after the fall of Doriath, at a time when Celeborn and Galadriel had dwelt among the Green-Elves in Ossiriand. His father was one of the Exiles who had returned from the West with the followers of Finarfin's children, his mother a Nandor Elf. The small amount of Vanyarin blood that he had inherited from his father's side gave him a regal appearance and considerable strength. And yet he had chosen the life of a scholar, even if he had known a battle in his youth. Just as his parents before him, he was a devoted follower of the Lady, yet wise enough not to be blind towards her flaws.

"I believe not that you should speak to the Lady Artanis about the issue of Lindir," the counsellor said to Erestor, using the old name of his Lady as was his wont. "He is kin, whether he accepts it or not, and the Lady would not like to see him bound to you any more than Gildor Inglorion would. You should not count on a non-prejudiced opinion from her side."

"That has been my fear, too," answered Erestor glumly. "Still, what can I do? I only wish to do the right thing where Lindir is concerned, but I am not gifted with foresight, as I am but the orphaned son of a common smith. How can I decide what is right and what is wrong, without guidance?"

Saelbeth remained silent for a while, searching for the best possible solution in the vast library of his memories. He had seen so much in his long life, good things or bad things, joyful ones and sorrowful ones alike, that he trusted himself to give some useful advice – if only he thought about it long enough."

"There _is_ a way, if you are willing to risk it," he finally said. "I can arrange for you a look into the Lady's Mirror… I assume you have heard of it."

Erestor nodded. "I have heard that it is an uncertain oracle, whether one asks it directly or allows it to show one what it chooses to show."

"That is true," Saelbeth admitted, "but at least the Mirror would not judge you, regardless if you followed its warnings or not. The Lady Artanis would. She is not content with Lindir's choice to lead the life of a commoner, and just like Gildor, she knows all too well what – or who – is the reason of that choice. Lindir is fortunate that Lord Gildor had accepted his choice; as long as the head of Finrod's House does not make any move against it, the Lady has to consent, too."

"What makes you believe then that your Lady would grant me a look into her Mirror?" asked Erestor doubtfully.

"She is not allowed to refuse anyone who asks for guidance," said Saelbeth simply. "I was there when our Lady was offered the chance to return to the West, to be forgiven… and yet she chose to stay here. Out of pride, many said – even her father, King Finarfin. Out of greed, to finally have her own realm to rule, said others. There might be a kernel in both statements…"

"But _you_ think differently," said Erestor. It was not a question. Saelbeth nodded.

"I have been with the Lady since… since my birth, you could say. I doubt that anyone but the Lord Celeborn would know her as well as I do, including her daughter. I have seen her in joy and in sorrow, in love and in anger, in wartime and in peacetime. I have seen her doing great deeds… and making grave mistakes. And I daresay that I am one of the very few persons whom she trusts."

"You love her… do you not?" asked Erestor. Saelbeth smiled wistfully.

"I love her in many ways, save the one you mean – like a son loves his mother, like an apprentice loves his master, like a faithful vassal loves his liege; or a minstrel the Lady whom he serves. Yet _her_ love belongs to the Lord Celeborn alone, and above all else, it was for him that she refused the offer of the Valar and stayed with him in Middle-earth. That, and foresight," he added as an afterthought. "She has been warned in dreams that she will be needed here, ere the darkness can be defeated."

Erestor shook his head in doubt. The Lady Artanis, as he always had been mentioned in Eregion, might have been the most valiant woman of the Noldor back in Valinor, but her deeds in Middle-earth were not as grand as Saelbeth apparently chose to see them. She had caused more unrest wherever she went than she was of any true help. At least that was how Erestor saw things. He knew that he was probably prejudiced, but he could not help his feelings. The name of Nerwende Artanis had not been one spoken in fondness among the Mírdain of Eregion, and that fact had influenced Erestor at a very young age.

Saelbeth, it seemed, read the face of his younger companion easily, for he smiled again.

"I know. 'Tis hard for you to look at the Lady without the old grudge that the followers of Celebrimbor held for her," the advisor said. "But trust me if I tell you that the Lady is determined to protect what little is still there from the strength and beauty of Elven realms. That is her purpose in Middle-earth; and the Mirror was given her as an aid."

"Given by whom?" asked Erestor.

"By Eönwe himself," said Saelbeth, naming the herald of Manwe Súlimo, Mightiest of the Maiar and chief warlord of the Host of Valinor during the War of Wrath with an ease only those born during the First Age were able to. "Ere he returned to the Blessed Realm, Eönwe travelled with the Lords Glorfindel and Elrond across the reshaped lands of Ennor, to bring the invitation of the Valar to all Elves who would listen to him. But he also took his time to teach and instruct those who had chosen to remain here. 'Twas during those years that he asked Celebrimbor, best of the Elven-smiths still alive to make a small basin of pure silver, shaped in the likeness of the _dreamflower_ – a flower that only blossoms in Irmo's gardens in the Blessed Land."

"The Mirror was made by Celebrimbor?" asked Erestor in awe. This was one piece of history he had never heard of before.

Saelbeth shook his head. "Not the Mirror itself --- only its basin. 'Tis the enchanted water and the power our Lady wields that make the Mirror work."

"Magic?" asked Erestor with a frown. He did not particularly trust magic, unless it came from one of the wizards or higher powers. In which case it was no magic at all – just something too powerful for him to truly understand.

Saelbeth shrugged. "Mortal Men would surely think of it as magic, aye. But you and I both know, son of Hargil, that there is nothing magical in the ways of Elves, unless it is the magic that works in water and fire, wind and tree, soil and stone. Your father and his peers used the magic that inhabits fire and ore to create things of great power and beauty, and yet it was naught that would not come from these elements naturally. Am I right?"

"Of course you are," replied Erestor, a little impatiently. "What the Mírdain did was not magic, it was _art_. The Dwarves knew it and used it as well. I can still remember old Master Narvi, telling me the tale about the ways one could set free the forces that lived in the elements. Art and knowledge and skill have nothing to do with magic."

"Nor have the powers which our Lady wields," said Saelbeth. "She just knows more than most people, as she not only had seen the light of the Two Trees in Aman, but also was an apprentice of Melian the Maia. And even though she could not grow a power akin to that of Lúthien Tinúviel, as her _hröa_ was not taken from the flesh of Middle-earth, nor was her _fea_ kindled by the spirit of a Maia, she has learnt much and seen much and grown in strength and wisdom for millennia."

"So, would that mean that she is now the mightiest of the Eldar still tarrying on this side of the Sea?" asked Erestor, rather uncomfortably. Last time they had met, he had been rather careless in his manners – a fact that he now regretted.

"Oh, no," laughed Saelbeth. "There are at least a handful who could be her match. Círdan, for one, the Shipwright – the oldest and wisest of all Elves in Middle-earth, Lord of the Falathrim since the beginnings and confidant of Osse and Uinen. Glorfindel Balrog-Slayer, the twice-born, is another one. And the Lord Celeborn, rooted deeply in the very core of Middle-earth; he is much more powerful than his friendly manners would reveal. I was never able to figure out the true strength of Elrond; but the Lady Arwen could become nearly as powerful as Lúthien one day. She is the only female descendant of Melian – who could tell what she is capable of?"

"What about the woodland folk?" asked Erestor. "'Tis said that they are less averse to meddling with magic than other Elves."

"Much is said about the woodland folk, but hard is to say how much of that is true," said Saelbeth thoughtfully. "They are a secretive people and trust no-one but heir own. Perhaps King Thranduil can answer your questions upon his arrival. He seems to have all but become one of them."

"And that should be considered bad?" asked Erestor, slightly irritated by the amused tone of the older Elf. "Maybe the woodland folk are right. Maybe our ancestors should not have turned their backs on the place of their birth. Maybe there was a reason why Ilúvatar chose the Hither Lands to awaken the Elves and not Valinor."

"Who can tell what the thoughts and intentions of Ilúvatar might be?" replied Saelbeth thoughtfully. "No-one but Manwe himself is entrusted with the thoughts of the One, and even he only gets hints and glimpses, 'tis said. Nay, we all have to find our own ways – and I find it hard to believe that refusing the Valar's guidance would be the right path."

"Who says that we refused the guidance of the Valar?" a deep and calm female voice spoke behind them, so unexpectedly, that they both very nearly jumped off he _talan_. "Not all the Valar agreed with the plan to bring the Quendi to Valinor – Ulmo was against it, and so was the Lady Palúrien who kept visiting Middle-earth even it the years of utter darkness, when no other Vala but Aldaron cared for these lands, abandoned to Melkor's mercy."

Saelbeth got to his feet immediately and bowed in deep respect.

"Queen Lálisin(1)," he murmured, "I did not know the party of the Greenwood had already arrived."

"It has not," the slender Silvan woman, clad in green and brown travelling clothes as was the custom of the woodland folk, said with a smile. "My lord husband prefers to travel with dignity, thus he will not arrive before tomorrow. But Alagos and I made a shortcut through the old paths. We wanted to join the Awakening Festival of our kin who dwell beyond the Ninglor."

"I knew not that you still had contact to them," said Saelbeth in surprise. The Queen of the Greenwood laughed.

"There are many things you know not, Master Saelbeth," she replied, clearly amused. "These are still our woods, even if your people inhabit them. I could walk by you at noon, in clear sight, and you would not notice me if I wanted to remain unnoticed."

While she spoke, Erestor watched the Queen of Greenwood in awe, as this was the first time he had the chance to see her face to face. Of course, he had heard of the Lady Lálisin before – she was a living legend among the Elves of the wood. She was said to be a direct descendant of Nurwe, one of the greatest, most ancient chieftains of the Avari, and she was wise and ancient herself. Considerably older than her husband, Thranduil of Doriath, in fact. And yet she looked barely different from any Silvan woman whom Erestor had encountered during his last stay in Lórien – save the light of timeless wisdom in her deep eyes. In her presence, even an Elf as old as Saelbeth seemed little more than a mere elfling.

The advisor was about to answer, but his attention was drawn to a small bird that had just appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and settled onto the proffered palm of the Lady Lálisin. The Queen of Greenwood asked something from the bird, in the same arcane dialect that the Lady Gwenethlin had used earlier (not that either Erestor or Saelbeth had known it, though), and the finch answered in its own tongue. Then the Queen kissed the tiny bird and let if fly away.

"It seems that young Lindir still has the gift to charm everyone out of hiding," she turned to Erestor. "The finch was a messenger of the Lady Gwenethlin; she lets you know that Lindir is visiting my kind beyond the Ninglor and will be returned safely when the Awakening Festival is over."

"He is with the _Avari_?" cried out Erestor in distress. He was so stunned that he forgot that he should not use that particular name the Old Clans disliked so much.

"Erestor!" hissed Saelbeth nervously; insulting a royal member of the Old Clans was not a sensitive idea. But the Queen stopped him with a soothing gesture.

"Be in peace, Master Saelbeth. He is young… and he is worried about his charge. I understand that. After having lost my three older sons to the Shadow and my only daughter to the Sea, I, too, live in constant fear for the only child that has remained me. Even though Laegalas is a grown adult and a trained warrior, I shall never cease to fear for his safety. But be comforted, Master Erestor. No harm shall come to young Lindir; our people had known him years upon years ere you even learnt of his existence. He was the fosterling of Aiwendil and thus he has been part of our people as well."

She fell silent for a moment and listened, her head tilted to one side in a bird-like gesture.

"You can show yourself, Alagos," she ten said with a smile. "We are among friends here."

"'Tis time, my Lady," the archer, barely visible in the deepening shadows, said respectfully. The Queen nodded.

"I know. We should leave now, or we will be late. Have you sent the messages I asked to be delivered?"

"As I was told, my Lady. Everything is ready. Our kin await your arrival."

"Then we shall go indeed," Queen Lálisin inclined her head towards Erestor and Saelbeth – and simply vanished in the shadows. Not even the keen Elven eyes could detect any trace of her departure among the branches. It seemed, even the _mellyrn_ of Caras Galadhon aided the Faithful, regardless of what these might think about the strange trees.

"We should leave, too," Saelbeth proposed. "I shall see that you be allowed a glance into the Mirror; may Elbereth guard your steps on the right path."

With that, he rose and descended from the _talan_, as his duties were calling. Erestor, though, remained there for the rest of the evening, thinking about his choices and chances and what he should or should not do.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The next few days were rather burdensome for the solitary Erestor. On the one hand, no matter how reassuring Queen Lálisin had sounded, he was still worried about Lindir. The Avari might be charmed by him, but Lindir _did_ have the unfortunate tendency to blurt out the truth in the most inappropriate moment and thus insult people without meaning any harm. Who could tell how the secretive, suspicious and quick-to-anger Avari would react to his otherwise adorable bluntness?

On the other hand, Erestor hated having to face so many strangers at once; and indeed, Lothlórien was all but overrun with visitors in these days. From the Greenwood to the South Haven, from Mithlond to the Vales of Anduin and as far eastwards as Dorwinion, every Elven realm, be it small or great, had sent its representatives to the upcoming unique event.

The intended union of two of the greatest Elven Houses influenced all their lives in some way, and as Elves did not need to order their affairs in any hurry, most of them planned to spend the whole year of betrothal in the Golden Wood and return to their respective homes after the wedding only.

This gave the rulers the chance to hold counsel in person rather than through messengers, which was a rare and important event in itself. The only one who had not come in person was Círdan, the Shipwright, as he could not leave the Grey Havens for anything short of a full-blown war. He had sent Galdor, one of his kinsmen instead.

Erestor had heard of Galdor, of course – who had not; the Telerin Elf was one of the few survivors of Gondolin, after all(2) – but felt little inspiration to meet face to face another giant of the First Age. Growing up under Glorfindel's tutelage had been intimidating enough, he did not need a repeat performance. And one could not help but feel slightly intimidated by the broadly built, keen-eyed and silver-haired Elf, who, as it was custom among the Falathrim, wore a short, neatly trimmed beard. Even from a distance, Galdor of the House of the Trees looked venerable and even a little frightening. He might not have been to Mandos' Halls and back, but he _was_ one of the high lords of Gondolin – not one around whom Erestor felt comfortable.

Thus he kept his own company these days, save the occasional run-ins with Saelbeth. Yet even those occasions were not frequent, as the advisor was constantly needed in important meetings between his Lady and other nobles.

The only one whom Erestor spent some time with was Daerien, Lord Celeborn's aide. The calm and competent Sinda seemed to handle the ever-growing crowd of high-ranking guests with enviable ease; Erestor wished _he_ could have the same detached calmness when unexpected guests invaded Imladris. She was even capable of handling Gildor's changing moods, without as much as a blink.

"I have known him for a very long time," she revealed with a shrug and a smile to Erestor's question. "I used to work in the High King's library, in Lindon, ere Lord Celeborn asked me to enter his service… long ago, when he and his lady still dwelt at Lake Evendim."

"Then you lived in Ost-in-Edhil as well, did you not?" asked Erestor in surprise. The last thing he would expect was to find here someone from his old home. Daerien shrugged.

"For a while. Ere you were even born. Ere things between Celebrimbor and the Lady would turn… ugly. I left Ost-in-Edhil after the confrontation. My Lord sent me to his kinsman, King Amdír, with a message, and I have lived here ever since."

"You did not follow them to Edhellond?"

"Nay; I was left here to aid King Amdír with his correspondence, as his Silvan subjects were not very good at that sort of thing… and also to maintain my Lord's presence. King Amdír consented – it was a most satisfactory arrangement."

Erestor could not help but notice that the Sinda never mentioned Galadriel as her Lady; apparently, she only accepted Celeborn's authority.

"Are you from Doriath, too?" he asked. Daerien shook her head.

"Nay, my family used to live in Nevrast. But after the fall of Brithombar and Eglarest, they went to the Isle of Balar with Lord Círdan's people – where I was born, shortly before the War of Wrath. I am only slightly older than Lord Gildor," she added with a smile, "and as I knew him as a toddler, he is a lot less intimidating for me than for most people."

Gildor as a toddler was something Erestor had a very hard time to imagine, but again, even the Lord of Edhellond _had_ to be a little elfling once. For some reason, though, he could not believe that young Gildor had been anyway near as adorable as Lindir when he came to Imladris, despite the blood they shared.

For a while, Daerien remained eerily quiet; Erestor had the uncomfortable feeling that she could read him as an open book, even though he could not feel her intruding his mind. But some Elves did have strange gifts, albeit they did not speak about it, and reading other people's feelings was one of those gifts. Yet unlike when Galadriel had tried to read his thoughts, Daerien's quiet inquiry did not offend him.

Finally, the Sinda rose and gave him one long, compassionate parting look.

"You should leave the burdens of the past behind, Erestor of Eregion," she said gravely, "or else you shall sacrifice future joys to past sorrows. Open your eyes and live – you are Erestor of Imladris now. You have belonged to Imladris for so long, yet your heart stil dwells among the churned ruins of Ost-in-Edhil."

"What do you know of my life?" replied Erestor bitterly.

"Enough," she answered in her customary, collected manner. "The past burdens you, the future frightens you, and while you are torn between the two, the present runs through your fingers like dry sand. 'Tis time for you to end this. 'Tis time for you to move on."

She gave a slight, elegant bow and departed, leaving a stunned Erestor alone, sitting under the _mallorn_ where they had met. Yet almost at the same moment the tall, imposing figure of Saelbeth appeared among the trees that framed the path leading to Lord Celeborn's house, approaching in such as hurry as it still could be afforded by the advisor's dignified status. Erestor found it amazing, how fast dignity could be when the need arose.

"Follow me," Saelbeth told him, slightly breathless. "I have forwarded your request to the Lady, and she agreed to allow you a look into her Mirror."

Fear and hope warred in Erestor's heart, as he quickly rose from under the _mallorn_ and followed the advisor. Saelbeth led him to the southern slopes of the evergreen hill, upon which Caras Galadhon stood, and passing through a white gate cut in a high green hedge they came into an enclosure like a secret garden. No trees grew there, and it was open to the sky, which was now prickled with many stars.

Down a long flight of steps of flat white stone they went into a green hollow, through which ran a silver stream, flowing down from a fountain on the hill. There stood upon a pedestal carved like a branching tree, a wide and shallow bowl of silver, shaped like a flower, and beside it stood a silver ewer. Erestor needed not to look for the holly-leaf, the symbol of Eregion, to recognize Celebrimbor's unique handiwork. He might have been a mere elfling when Ost-in-Edhil fell, but no-one who had seen Celebrimbor's creations could ever forget them.

The Lady Galadriel stood beside the pedestal, gleaming white in the starlight. Her gown, fine like cobwebs, was girdled with a silver cord, and her soft cloak of such a pale grey that it almost seemed white as well, pooled around her feet like water. She wore no jewellery, unless it was hidden under the long sleeve of her gown, a triangular piece of which even covered the back of her hand; nor did she need any other adornment than her famous hair, considered a marvel unmatched, even among the Eldar.

For it looked like spun gold, barely touched by the shade of silver, inherited from her Teleri ancestors, like Lindir's, and just like Lindir, she wore it open, save from two thin braids above her temples that were woven together on the nape of her neck. Her pale face, her noble features showed a gentleness Erestor could not remember having ever seen before; and all of a sudden he understood which part of Lindir's ancestors the young minstrel's exquisite beauty came from.

Once again, he felt too unhewn and clumsy, too… common, not worthy of Lindir's love.

Galadriel silently took water from the stream with the ewer and filled the bowl to the brim; then she breathed on it and waited for the water to become still again. When the surface was as smooth as a mirror indeed, she turned to Erestor, her grey eyes deep and concerned.

"You requested a look into my Mirror, son of Hargil," she said solemnly, "and I grant your request as it is my duty. You may look into the Mirror – if you are certain that you can bear what you see."

Erestor shivered. 'Twas eerily still in the dark dell, and the Lady, who stood motionless, facing him, was tall and pale and forbidding.

"What shall I look for, and what shall I see?" he asked fighting his raising fear.

"That I cannot say," she answered. "No-one can, who does not know all that is in your heart, in your mind, and your hope. For the Mirror shows both the past and present, and even that which is called the future, in so far as it can be seen by any in Middle-earth. But those are wise who can discern to which of these three the things that they see belong."

Erestor shook his head in exasperation. "You are speaking in riddles, Lady."

"I am, indeed," replied Galadriel, "for riddles are all the Mirror will ever show, and those cannot always be solved, whether you ask it to reveal something you desire to see or leave it free to work. In either way, it can prove both useful and perilous to risk a look. 'Tis your choice to face it or leave it."

"I have asked for this," said Erestor, determined, "and I shall not back off now. If there is a chance that what I see might guide me to make the right choices, I must take all risks involved."

Galadriel inclined her head. "You are brave. Or desperate. Or both. But it is your choice, and I shall honour it. Come then and look – but remember not to touch the water! The powers that work through the Mirror are greater than even I would be able to contain."

Erestor nodded his understanding, and stepping closer to the pedestal, he leaned over the bowl, even though a little reluctantly. At first, there was nothing to see but the smooth, dark surface of the water, with the glittering reflection of stars upon it, and he almost felt disappointed.

Then, as he focussed his thoughts on Lindir, the stars gradually went out, one by one, and as if a dark curtain had been pulled aside, the Mirror grew clear like some magical window into another world. Erestor had the feeling that he would look down onto well-known places of his life from far above.

He could see the mirror image of Imladris, the stone-paved courtyard of the Last Homely House and Aiwendil, riding in on his big, brown horse, followed by a young elfling who had pale gold hair like the winter sunshine and wide, sea-hued eyes, full of wonder.

Then the image shifted, so quickly that he could barely notice, and Erestor could see his younger self again, sitting on a stuffed couch in Elrond's library, a very young and very sad Lindir curled up on his side and burrowed in his arms for comfort.

After this, the images began to change so rapidly that he could hardly follow. He could see Lindir licking honey from his fingers in the kitchen, sweetmeats for the winter solstice laid out before him on a large baking thin; Lindir again, laughing and talking with two sturdy, yellow-bearded Dwarves; Lindir in the Hall of Fire, teasing an elderly halfling about something, and he was so sweet and innocent and happy that Erestor smiled, without knowing it.

But soon, the images became darker. Erestor saw with dread Orc-packs intruding the protective valley of Imladris, himself, laying on the soil of Celebrían's garden, bleeding profoundly; Lindir, staring down in utter shock at his own bloody hands; a white ship sailing to the West; and a much older Lindir, standing on a deserted, black shore, his hair white like freshly fallen snow and his beautiful face strangely detached, as if he were not in his body any longer.

Finally, the Mirror slowed down again, to show him one last image, and Erestor's heart grew cold, for he saw some kind of underground cave. A great number of Silvan Elves – or probably Avari – was there, holding some sort of feast, and Lindir was there with them, laughing and drinking something that looked like mead.

He wore green clothes Erestor had never seen on him before, and a crown of flowers upon his hair. The Elves, who sat with him, exchanged frequent kisses with him, running admiring fingers through his hair and whispering in his ear things that made him blush. After a while, they seemed to come to an understanding, as two of them, also clad in green, rose from their places, took Lindir by the hands and led him to a door hidden behind a curtain.

In the very moment they stepped behind the curtain, the Mirror went dark again.

Erestor straightened slowly, too numb to even think. He did not know much about the fertility rites of the Avari – nobody did – but he had a fairly good idea what was about to happen behind that curtain. That Lindir would go and do it stunned him. Despite his tireless pursue of Erestor, the young minstrel was usually very shy and did not mingle with strangers. Throwing himself at them was completely unheard of.

Looking up in torment, Erestor saw the strangely compassionate gaze of the Lady Galadriel lying upon himself.

"'Tis hard to understand what we have had, in the moment we are about to lose it," said Galadriel softly. "If you _want_ to handle, you should do so quickly – or else it might be too late."

"I thought you were against Lindir's choice, Lady," mumbled Erestor. Galadriel nodded.

"I still am. But it is Lindir's choice, and he has chosen _you_, long ago. The question is – are you ready to accept this choice?"

"I know not," admitted Erestor in despair. "I… I need to think about it."

"Then think quickly, for you have not much time left," Galadriel turned around and left the glade with slow, measured steps, leaving a confused and utterly helpless Erestor behind.

TBC

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End notes:**

(1) Lálisin is a Silvan name (courtesy of Erunyauve) and means "wise elm". Yes, she is the mother of Legolas, in all my stories. She is an Avari lady, a little conservative, which is why she calls her son Laegalas, using the older form of his name.

(2) According to "The Book of Lost Tales", Galdor was the Lord of the House of the Tree in Gondolin. He was originally conceived as a Gnome (= Noldo), like all High Lords of Gondolin. For a very short time, Tolkien actually toyed with the idea to make him identical with Galdor of the Grey Havens, Círdan's emissary present on Elrond's Council in FOTR, but ultimately rejected it. I picked up the idea again and made Galdor a Telerin Elf, assuming that the House of the Tree contained mostly Teleri, Sindar and Nandor. There is no canon fact that would support that little twist.


	21. Chapter 16: Confusion of the Hearts

**INNOCENCE**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only Erestor's family belongs to me.

**Rating:** PG-13, for this chapter. Just to be on the safe side. This chapter contains some… delicate material and is extremely emotional.

Please read Warnings before the Prologue.

**Author's notes:**

This chapter has been re-written several times. Hopefully, this version will match the general picture of the story. Another chapter will follow to complete the Lórien-arc, after which there will probably be another long break before the next update. I hope it will not take another year, though.

**Dedication:** This particular chapter is dedicated to Mirasaui, to cheer her up.

My heartfelt thanks go to Larian Elensar for the beta reading.

**CHAPTER 16: CONFUSION OF THE HEARTS **

When Lindir, still holding the hand of the Lady Nimrodel, crossed the Ninglor, it seemed to him as if he stepped into another world. Into a world that was much older than the one he had known, and yet full of life and power.

Only once had he felt the same way about a forest – way, way back, when he had visited the Fangorn with Radagast as a small elfling. He remembered little about that visit, only that he had been sitting upon the shoulders of the old wizard and that the trees had been more alive than anywhere else he had ever been.

Until now. Although this was not quite the same awareness, as the trees of the Ninglor forest did _not_ change places, and one could more feel than actually hear their whispered conversation. Still, Lindir could feel them greeting and welcoming him, and there even was the one or other leafy touch upon his hair or face from a slowly lowered branch.

He cast Nimrodel a slightly bewildered look, and the Lady smiled.

"Yes," she said, "the trees recognize you, Lindir of Rhosgobel. There has always been great love between them and the Brown Wizard – the only one of that order who ever truly cared for the woods – and the blessing of Palúrien that Aiwendil had brought back from beyond the Sea is clearly imprinted upon your _fëa_, visible for everyone who has the eyes to see. Do you believe that I would have brought you with me otherwise?"

Lindir shook his head mutely. The whispering of the trees filled his saddened heart with a joy he had not felt for a very long time. With the joy of coming home. 'Twas the same joy he felt in Iarwain's house when the River-daughter had sung down the rain to the green fields – or in Radagast's wooden halls, when the beasts and birds of the wood came to visit them in Brownhay.

As much as he loved Imladris – and he _did_ love Elrond's valley with all his heart – he knew he would never completely fit the life there. He understood Radagast's reasons for bringing him under Elrond's protection; he even saw the necessity for it, and made there a home for himself as well as he could, but his heart felt more at home here, in the solemn company of the ancient trees – and the Elves who lived with them – than he ever would be among the Lords of Imladris.

"I am honoured," he finally said. It was not the best-suited answer, nor did it truly express what he felt, but it was the only one he could think of. Fortunately, the Lady Nimrodel seemed to understand the unspoken message as well.

"You should be," she replied teasingly, "for 'tis a rare honour indeed, one that we had not provided anyone who is not of our blood, save Master Aiwendil and King Thranduil of the Greenwood. But the trees seem to like you, thus my choice has been a right one. Come with me now. My handmaids will clad you in the festive clothes of the Faithful and crown you with flowers as it is proper, ere we join the feasting crowd."

She led him to one of the beech trees, a little further from the bridge. Standing under the tree, she gave a low whistle, that of the songbird very alike. Almost immediately, a ladder made of the thin but strong _hithlain_ rope that Lothlórien was so famous for, came rolling down, and only now did Lindir detect the well-hidden _talan_ in the protective embrace of the higher branches. The small house upon it blended so well with the tree itself that even Elven eyes had a hard time making it out.

"Follow me," said Nimrodel, and she ran up the rope ladder lightly, apparently not hindered by her long gown. Lindir obeyed.

Up on the _talan_, a dour-faced guard greeted his Lady – he reminded Lindir of Alagos, King Thranduil's master tracker, a frequent visitor in Radagast's old home in Rhosgobel – and rolled up the rope ladder again with quick, practiced moves. He spoke the tongue of the Faithful, which, to Lindir's mild surprise, was similar enough to the ancient Silvan dialect preferred among the people of the Greenwood for even the young minstrel to understand.

Of course, Lindir had the gift to learn languages almost instinctively – a gift somehow connected to his unique musical talent – but the two tongues were doubtlessly related. _Closely_ related. So closely indeed that Lindir began to wonder just how many of the Avari must have blended in with Thranduil's subjects during the Second Age.

"Are my ladies still here, Blodrin?" Nimrodel asked.

"Only Mistress Nelennas and her change," answered the guard. "The others have already left to make preparations for tonight's celebrations."

Nimrodel nodded. "They will do. I need our guest to be clad properly."

Blodrin shot Lindir a curious look. "So, this is the Brown Wizard's little songbird? And he came with you at once, Lady? It seems that even living with the _Golodhrim_ could not make him forget what he had been taught."

Lindir turned to the guard, hard lines appearing on his gentle face and making his expression eerily alike to that of Gildor in one of his worse moods.

"What do you hope from speaking badly of those who were good to me?" he demanded angrily. "You have no love for the Noldor? Fine; you are entitled to that. But I have never had experienced aught but kindness from Lord Elrond, his family and his household, and I shall not have you speak of them thusly in my presence."

No-one of the Faithful would ever dare to lecture Blodrin in this manner; for one of their own, it would have... unfortunate consequences. Yet the ancient Elf, who had been born before Ithil or Anor illuminated the dark skies of Ennor, only reacted with a grim smile.

"Fierce, is he not, the young one?" he said to Nimrodel. The Lady smiled back at him.

"But he is also right, Blodrin," she replied. "Twas not very courteous of you, to speak of his Lord in this manner, was it? Our grievances with the _Golodhrim_ are not his; we should not drag him into such an Ages-old enmity."

Blodrin inclined his head towards Lindir. "My Lady is right. Forgive me, young one, for speaking too harshly."

"And I was rude, as I often am," Lindir blushed, realizing that he had spoken before thinking again. "I, too, ask for your forgiveness. It seems that I am always insulting people, without even meaning it."

"You are just being honest; there is nothing wrong with that," another woman, with a plain, ageless face but with eyes that spoke of millennia upon millennia witnessed by them, stepped out of the house. "Blodrin should know better than embarrassing the Lady's guests. He is old enough to behave… or, at least one would think so."

At this point Lindir was truly so embarrassed that all he wished was to run and to hide. The grim Elf, however, just raised a sarcastic eyebrow and bowed in mock respect.

"I shall try and better my manners, Mistress."

"And not a _yén_ too early," the woman prompted; then she turned to Lindir and greeted him. "Welcome to Forfain(1), young Lindir. I am Mistress Nelennas, the Lady's housekeeper and the one responsible for her handmaids. We have been waiting for you, as the trees had told us about your arrival. Come; let us clad you in proper clothes. We must hurry up, as the festival is just about to begin."

She led Lindir inside the Lady's house, which was just as neat and simple as those of the common Silvan folk. If the Avari had truly kept the old way since the rising of Ithil and Anor, apparently the Wood-Elves had not strayed far from them either.

Nelennas and a very young maiden with the name of Mithrellas now clad Lindir in a tunic and leggings of pale forest green, wound his hair in a low bun on the nape of his neck, as it was custom among the Faithful, and crowned them with a wreath of fresh spring flowers. When they were done, they eyed their handiwork critically from all sides (Lindir blushed furiously, upset with himself about his own reaction) and exchanged satisfied looks.

"Very comely indeed," decided Nelennas. "Even the Lady Palúrien would not mind to let you dance alongside the Nandini and the Nenmir(2), young one. 'Tis rare that we have such beauty adorning our feasts."

"Perhaps you should invite guests more often," said Lindir innocently. "I assure you, Mistress, that I am not such a rare sight among our people."

Nelennas laughed and kissed him on the cheek, and young Mithrellas did the same, and Lindir was now as red with embarrassment as ripe cherries in the summer season. And so they finally had mercy with him and ceased teasing him. The Lady Nimrodel peered in, a little impatiently now, and soon they all left the tree again and walked towards the waterfall.

"Where are we going?" asked Lindir from the Lady. "Do your people not feast under the skies during high feasts like other Elves?"

"Depends on the feast," replied Nimrodel. "The Awakening Festival celebrates the return of natural life from the dark womb of Arda, therefore we return to the earth to help free it from the icy embrace of _hrív_. After that, we will build bonfires and dance around them under the stars, yes."

"Return to the earth?" repeated Lindir. "As in _under_ the earth?"

Seeing his anxiety, Nimrodel smiled. "Worry not, we do not intend to bury you – or anyone else – alive. See? Here we are already."

'Here' was at the foot of the nearby waterfall, the melodic splashing of which had so enchanted Lindir earlier. It came down in a sharp angle from a rocky hill and glittered in the sunshine like a jewelled silver curtain, but…

"I cannot see any caves," said Lindir uncertainly. Nimrodel laughed.

"Of course not. They are not hidden if you can see them, are they? Just come with me and have no fear; I shall show you the way."

She took Lindir's hand and led him on a narrow path, hidden behind the curtain of water, so close to it that when Lindir stretched out his other hand, he could wet his fingertips. Still, the rocky path was dry, save from a few stray droplets of water, and there was no peril to slip and fall into the water bed. After a hundred steps or so, the path ended before a low, arched entrance. Nimrodel ducked and went through, and Lindir followed suit.

They came into a surprisingly large, airy cavern that was lit and aired sufficiently though narrow slots cut high into the rocky ceiling. If they were natural openings or made by skilled Elven hands, Lindir could not tell by sight alone. He counted twelve of them, placed in an irregular circle – most likely so that after sunset certain stars could be seen through them. This would have meant an artificial structure, though.

The floor of the cave was not rock but living soil, and many green-clad, flower-crowned Elves sat on the naked earth, waiting for the beginning of the celebration. Some of them had the simple lutes or wooden flutes of the woodland folk with them and were already playing on those. The music reminded Lindir of that which he had heard during his sparse visits in Thranduil's realm. It was sweet, but wild and fiery at the same time, throbbing with the strength and passion of the living earth itself, with the power of growing things and running water, with the wildness of untamed beasts and the lightness of the birds' flight, not burdened with the sorrows of earth-bound creatures.

The Elves greeted Lindir in a kind manner, which was uncustomary for the secretive Avari. But as they seemed not surprised by his presence at all, Lindir presumed that the Lady Nimrodel had already announced his coming. He was seated between two youthful-looking elves named Tavros and Ormain and offered some mead in a large, earthenware mug. It tasted very good, and though Lindir usually did not drink much, this time it made him feel good.

Soon, he felt the heat rising to his cheeks, but that felt good, too, and he knew not whether he was blushing from the mead or from the sweet words his companions – two brothers, as it turned out, and members of the border guard – were whispering into his ears, words of desire and admiration. After the almost cold distance Erestor had kept ever since the Choosing Ceremony, it was so good to feel wanted again; he laughed at the compliments in a carefree manner and did not protest when his mug was refilled.

After a while, someone asked him to sing, and he happily obeyed, performing an old song from the Greenwood, sung in some ancient Silvan dialect. This made his hosts very happy, and they praised both his choice and his talent, which made him feel even better. The Lady Nimrodel came over and joined them for a while, and they talked and laughed and shared the modest festive meal and even more mead, and for the first time in a long while, Lindir felt the weight of loneliness lift off his young heart and he forgot all his sorrows.

Sometime after sunset – Lindir had forgotten to take count of the time here in the warm, protective womb of living earth – joyous cries arose among the feasting Elves, greeting the arrival of Lady Lálisin, Queen of the Greenwood, and her companion, Alagos. Lindir, too, sprang to his feet in delight, for he had known the Queen since his childhood and loved and respected her greatly. And the Lady Lálisin kissed him on the brow, calling him Lindó, which meant "singing bird" in the Old Speech, as he had been called when he was little.

"I have missed you, little songbird," she said, "and so have Laegalas, and Mírenin, and Rhimlath, and all the others. How are you faring?"

"I am faring well, my Lady," replied Lindir, snuggling into her embrace for a moment, as had been his wont as a little elfling. "I miss Master Aiwendil sometimes, but..." he trailed off, shrugging.

Lady Lálisin lifted his chin gently and looked into his eyes with her wise, ancient ones that could see into the most hidden depths of one's heart.

"Your heart is full of sorrow, little songbird. It saddens me greatly to see you in pain. But maybe you shall find some hearts-ease tonight, as this is the night of awakening and rebirth."

She kissed his brow again and turned away, to greet other people she knew and to meet those she had not known before. It was a long list, as indeed, too much time had gone by since she had been able to join her kin on such a festival. Finally, she reached the end of those waiting for her and joined Lady Nimrodel in the middle of the room, looking upwards to the stars.

"The circle is full," she said softly, and indeed, the constellation of stars that could be seen through the slots cut into the ceiling on this single night alone, was now complete.

The Elves rose all and sang the Lay of Awakening, the most ancient song known to their kin. They sang it in the Old Speech that only the eldest of the Avari still understood, for their own tongue had changed greatly during the countless Ages in-between, Yet Lindir was familiar with it, as this was the tongue spoken in Iarwain's house, and he had been taught it at a very young age.

The Avari seemed delighted that he knew their most sacred lay – Síriyen(3) had sung it every year at this very same night – and declared that he was indeed one of the Faithful, despite his "outlandish" looks, as they put it. Lindir laughed at that and accepted the honorary kisses of many fair maidens and his heart was light.

Someone touched his shoulder gently. Lindir turned back and saw one of his earlier companions. Tavros, who was tall for a Wood-Elf and handsome and green-eyed, which was a less-than-common treat among the woodland folk, smiled at him and said, "The night is growing old, and the feast in this hall is all but over. Yet my brother," he nodded his head in Ormain's direction, "and I still have a bottle of good feywine to open, and we would like to share it with you, if you are willing.''

Lindir eyed the brothers warily. Ormain was somewhat smaller in stature and had the usual auburn hair and bright, chestnut-brown eyes of the Wood-Elves, his face young and Elven-fair… and flushed at the moment. Tavros looked calmer, but there was a fire in those green, feline eyes of his as well.

"Why would you want to share your wine with me?" asked Lindir.

"The wine is not the only thing we want to share," Tavros gently cupped the young Elf's face in his slender hands and caressed the young minstrel's cheek with those long fingers, callused from hundreds of years of archery practice. "'Tis a time-honoured custom among the Faithful that those still unbound choose a partner for the Night of Awakening and celebrate the rebirth of the Earth with making love. You are very beautiful, Lindir of Rhosgobel, and we want you. We both do. Are you still unbound? For we would love to take you to one of the side chambers and share the joys of rebirth with you. Whomever you may choose, the other one would be happy for him."

Lindir remained silent for a moment. He _was_ still unbound, according to the customs of the Elves – at least legally. He had not spoken his vows yet, and as things looked between him and Erestor, he had begun to doubt that he ever would. Still, he hesitated to give a positive answer, feeling uneasy about lying with a stranger, even though he needed that sort of comfort badly.

Seeing the conflicting emotions plainly on the young minstrel's face, Tavros leaned down and kissed him, gently but deeply. Lindir shivered under the older Elf's touch and sighed into Tavros' mouth – it was such a good feeling to be desired. He moved into the strong arms encircling his slim frame, unable to suppress a quiet moan. It had been seasons since Erestor let him share his bed the last time, and he felt so desperate for a loving touch, all of a sudden, that he could barely restrain himself. It was a festival, a sacred time of the _loa_, and he did not want to spend it in a cold bed, alone. Again.

"I _am_ unbound," he murmured, the weight of this very fact crashing down upon him again, and it seemed to him that his heart would break with the sorrow of his loneliness.

Tavros let go of him. He felt the loss of that warm touch keenly, and almost cried out in despair. But only a moment later another pair of strong arms pulled him into a firm embrace, another pair of warm lips sealed his mouth, drinking from his sweetness deeply. Ormain kissed lighter, more playfully than his brother, and Lindir began to enjoy himself greatly. Seasons worth of suppressed need broke to the surface without warning. The kisses stole his breath, and he answered them with equal passion rubbing the whole length of his body against Ormain's.

"I do believe that our honoured guest is willing to share the feywine with us… and more," Tavros laughed, separating them with a gentle but firm hand. "Hold on, you two. Restrain yourselves 'til I find us an empty chamber."

Lindir blushed furiously and stepped away from Ormain, but the Avari laughed and swatted his brother playfully. As soon as Tavros left, however, Lindir was in Ormain's embrace again, trying to soak up the warmth of the other Elf, as if it could help against the coldness in his heart. Ormain did not seem to mind and kept him pleasantly distracted until Tavros' return.

It seemed to him that the older brother had only been away from a few heartbeats' time. When he returned, there was a bottle in his hand and a smile upon his face.

"I have found just the right place," he said. "It is being prepared as I speak. We can go in a moment."

"Do you think this is wise?" a quiet voice asked from behind them, and turning, Tavros looked into the worried eyes of young Mithrellas. "He might be unbound by the laws and customs of the _Golodhrim_, but his eyes reveal that his heart and soul are given to someone already."

Tavros nodded. "I have seen it, too. But whomever it is, they left him alone during a festival like this, and he is desperate. Look at him – can you not see that he is grieving already? What he needs is love and comfort, and we can give him _that_, at the very least."

"Maybe you can give him _what_ he needs," answered Mithrellas gravely, "but neither of you is the one _whom_ he needs. In the end, his heart will remain as empty as it is now."

"True," Tavros admitted, watching the young minstrel burrowing himself deeper into Ormain's arms. "But he is in need, and we can help with that. No-one should lie alone in the night of the Awakening."

"That is why I have invited him to join our feast," the Lady Nimrodel said, stepping closer to them, apparently having overheard every word. "There is so much pain and sorrow in him... too much for a heart so young and pure as his. Be gentle with him," she added, shooting Tavros a warning look. The archer bowed respectfully.

"We will, my Lady," then, catching a slight nod from Mistress Nelennas, he touched his brother's shoulder. "The chamber is prepared, Ormain. Let us go."

Ormain released Lindir and smiled. The brothers took Lindir by the hand and led him to one of the many doors hidden behind the heavy, woollen tapestries that covered the rocky walls of the huge main cave.

Mithrellas looked after them for a moment, shaking her head.

"I am still afraid this is a mistake," she said.

But the Lady Nimrodel smiled and said simply. "This is something that Lindir has to do, if he ever wants to conquer the one he loves."

Yet no matter how much they begged, she never explained her words for the others.

* * *

On the next morn, Erestor left Caras Galadhon shortly after sunrise and walked across the Golden Wood to Cerin Amroth. The guards recognized him from his earlier visit by their Lord and allowed him entrance without any questions. After some hesitant wandering under the trees he finally ran into Ammalas and asked the young Elf about Lindir's whereabouts.

"He has just come back from beyond the river," answered Haldir's second-born readily enough. "You will find him in one of the guest chambers in my father's house." And he pointed towards the royal _mallorn_, not that Erestor truly needed the help to find it, just out of custom.

Erestor nodded, thanked him, and began the long climb up to Haldir's home. Amroth's people did not use the spiral stairways that were so characteristic for Caras Galadhon; here the only way to get onto the trees was to climb the ladders, made of white wood, and Erestor cursed the long robes he had had to put on due to his position. Now he understood why all Wood-elves wore short tunics, save on special occasions. The Silvan fashion most definitely made the travel on the treetops a lot easier.

Finally, he reached the _talan_ on which Haldir's house stood, and Rodwen, who had grown to a younger, mellower version of her mother, led him to the guest chambers. Erestor took a deep breath, steadying himself for the confrontation he knew would follow. He dreaded it already, fearing that whatever he was about to say might deepen the rift between him and Lindir.

He was not prepared for the sight that was waiting for him, though.

Lindir had returned to Cerin Amroth right after sunrise – empty and miserable, despite his well-loved body. Young Mithrellas had been right: as skilled as Tavros and Ormain had been in their loving, they could not give him what he truly needed. Neither was the one _whom_ he needed. And considering how little fruit his long and dedicated pursuit had brought, he began to consider giving up. He had frown very tired of courting Erestor in vain.

Seeing Erestor enter his room, Lindir's eyes lit up in hope once again. But Erestor only shot a bitter look at him – his swollen and bruised lips, the dark rings under his eyes and the extreme care he needed to sit down gave the nature of his nightly activities away – and turned away to leave again.

"Dare you not!" Lindir hissed angrily, years upon years worth of fruitless hope turning into gall in his heart.

Erestor stopped short in the door. "What say you?"

"I say, dare you not to walk away from me!" answered Lindir in a dangerously low voice. His gentle eyes burned with a cold fire that could have put Gildor to shame. Erestor frowned.

"What reason do I still have to say?" he asked reasonably; at least he _thought_ that he was being reasonable. "'Tis obvious that you have found others to fill my place already."

"You of all people must know best why I had to share myself with strangers tonight," Lindir snapped, all the sorrow and bitterness over Erestor's rejection breaking free at once. "Never have I yearned for any other touch but yours, yet you let me in your bed once in a season at best. You would not give me love; you even left me alone on the night of Awakening, when no Elf should be lying alone. So dare you not to judge me when I, at least, take pleasure from another lover!"

"From _one_ other lover?" repeated Erestor with emphasis. "Nay you threw yourself to all those who lusted after you. Or did you not leave that cave with _two_ partners?"

Lindir frowned, folding his arms across his chest. "You were watching? How…?"

"Through the Mirror of Galadriel," Erestor rubbed his face, defeated. "I went to the oracle to find out if we truly were meant to be together…. And then, the Mirror showed me... showed me the three of you, leaving the feasting chamber together…"

"So I am not good enough for you any more?" asked Lindir slowly. His voice was strangely cold. "You would not give me what I have longed for in all those _yéni_ since I was brought to Imladris, but now that I have sought comfort from others, I am a whore in your eyes? Did you expect me to spend my whole life in solitude, hoping that one day you might finally make up your mind, or at least remember the joys we had shared?"

Erestor was truly shaken by these accusations, for there was a lot of truth in Lindir's bitter words. He _had_ kept the youngling at arm's length, not being able to decide if it would be the right thing to bond with him, for he had felt unworthy of such a gift and thought that Lindir deserved better. He had hesitated too long, 'til his beloved grew tired of waiting and gave his flawless body to others to pleasure, even if his heart remained unmoved. And it was his own fault that Lindir began sleeping around with people he had hardly known.

He could have tasted the sweet draught of love every night since Lindir had reached his maturity. Instead he kept the young Elf away from his bed most of the time, touching him only when Lindir became truly restless and miserable and needed comfort desperately.

What a fool he had been! He had taken Lindir for granted, knowing about the young minstrel's love towards him, believing that he had all the time on Arda. Yet it seemed that even the greatest, purest love could turn bitter when not nurtured and cherished properly, and perhaps sweet, beautiful Lindir was lost to him, forever.

"Lindir," he began miserably, not quite sure _what _he was about to say, but the young minstrel turned away from him.

"I will not listen to this," he said coldly. "Leave me alone. That is what you do best, is it not? Then do it now."

He waited with a stone-hard face until Erestor left. Then he lay down on his bed, turned to the wall and remained there for the rest of the day, crying silently into his pillow.

* * *

Erestor did not return to Caras Galadhon on that day. He felt he could not face anyone he knew, least of all Elrond and his family. He had been given responsibility for Lindir's well-being, many _yéni_ ago, and he failed. He had had the best intentions, certainly – but those same intentions turned out to be his worst mistakes. He knew not what to do. He needed to be alone.

Unconsciously, he walked down to the Ninglor, where Lindir had been sitting a day earlier, sat down and listened to the music of the waterfall. He had never felt so helpless in his life. He wanted to make things better, to atone for his mistakes, but he had no idea how to begin – or whom to ask.

Thus he sat on the riverbank and wept all morning – for the first time since Elrond had rescued him from the burning ruins of Ost-in-Edhil. He never knew he still had so many tears to shed. When his eyes finally ran dry, he just sat there, resting his forehead on his knees, wishing he could do something – _anything_ – to redeem himself in Lindir's eyes. Had he not been so desperate, he would find it amusing that he only realized how much he loved the young minstrel when it was already too late.

"There is nothing so sad as the regret over a lost chance," a soft, unfamiliar voice said, and looking up he saw a slender Silvan maid sitting nearby. She wore green and brown clothes and a thin silver circle upon her brow and looked at him with sympathy.

"I am Nimrodel," she added, "and if I am not mistaken, you must be Erestor."

Erestor nodded, unable to speak. He was angry with the Lady of the Falls who had invited Lindir to their feast, where…

Nimrodel shook her head in gentle disapproval. "You are a fool, Erestor. That youngling loves you beyond measure; he would never have come to us if you had not left him alone. Why would you let the greatest gift of our life slip through your fingers? Do not tarry here, go to him!"

"Why do you care?" asked Erestor, the hostility in his voice unmistakable. "When he turns away from me, perhaps one of your people can get lucky and have him."

"No-one can ever truly have him but you," replied Nimrodel with a patient smile. "'Twas his sorrow alone that led him to us. – now he has learnt that no-one can fill that secret place in his heart, aside from you. He tried to find love somewhere else – it did not work. The question is now: are you willing to accept what he can offer? 'Tis not an easy thing – a love, so strong and unconditioned as his, can be a burden sometimes; and yet it is the greatest gift an Elf can give another one. _Do_ you love him?"

Erestor nodded. "I do. It took me long to understand that I cannot live without him… I felt unworthy."

"No-one is worthy of such love," Nimrodel shrugged. "That is why it will always remain a gift, given freely and accepted freely. But this is your last chance to prove to him your love – or you shall lose him. Not to one of our people – they mean naught to him, neither of them – to Mandos' Halls. For he is heartbroken, and has just learned that sleeping around randomly will not heal him."

She waited for a moment, but Erestor had no answer to that. Thus she rose, giving him one last warning. "I hope you can still heal him, for I have grown fond of him in the short time he spent among us. You are a very fortunate Elf, Master Erestor; being loved this much is a rare thing, even among our people. Even if it feels like a burden at times."

With that, she left him, walking over the narrow bridge to the other side of the Ninglor. Erestor had not blinked but once, and she had already vanished among the trees. But that was no wonder. She was a wise woman of the Faithful, after all. Every tree in the forest was her friend and ally.

It took Erestor a long time to gather his wits and follow her advice. His earnest words remained like daggers in his heart, and if possible, he was even more scared than before. Only the overwhelming fear that Lindir might have left already, seeking out other distractions or looking for a place to hide and grieve, got him finally moving.

As before, no-one tried to stop him when he climbed back up the royal _mallorn_. It seemed that the whole forest was keeping its breath in anticipation and quiet anxiety. Even the birds remained silent, and Erestor was growing nervous as he climbed, fearing that he might be too late already.

"Is… is Lindir still here?" he asked Rodwen, and the raven-haired maiden nodded wordlessly, giving him a look full of accusations. Erestor ducked, knowing that he deserved it… and more.

When he entered the guest chamber, Lindir was still lying atop his bed, face buried in his wet pillow, slim shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. Erestor felt a pang of fresh guilt piercing his heart. Regardless of his sensibility, Lindir had only given himself over to grief twice during the last three _yéni_: when Aiwendil let him behind in Imladris and when Erestor refused to take him to his bed before reaching his maturity. It pained the seneschal now that in two out of three times _he_ was the reason for Lindir's grief.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and began to rub that narrow back soothingly – something that had never before failed to calm Lindir down when he was upset.

"Lindir," he murmured, "dear heart, I am so ashamed that I caused you so much sorrow. I beg you, little one; do not give yourself over to grief. Do not go from me… I could not bear losing you."

"You have no need of me," came the muffled answer. "You love me not, you never have. So go away!"

"Oh, but I do," Erestor sighed. "I love you more than life itself, sweet one. Alas, that I almost had to lose you to understand my own heart. Can you ever forgive me for having denied you the desire of your heart this long?"

Lindir rolled over onto his back and glared up to him suspiciously. "Do you speak the truth? Or is this just some twisted way to make me feel better and to unburden your heart from the guilt?"

"Nay, beloved," Erestor gently wiped away Lindir's tears. "I understand why you doubt the sincerity of my words, but… By the memory of my lost home and family, I swear to you that I have spoken the truth."

"Then prove it!" demanded Lindir. "Claim me as yours when your love for me is true! Make the smell of the others go away, so that I would wear the scent of you alone!"

But Erestor shook his head slowly. "Nay, my love. This time it should be _you_ who makes that claim. I want you to make _me_ yours."

Lindir's eyes grew impossibly wide, understanding the ramifications of this request. Then he rose from his ruined bed, his soft face still wet from the tears that had been washing over his cheeks for hours, took Erestor's hand and led him over to the other room, the empty guest chamber, with the untouched bed.

* * *

Some ten miles into the northeast, in the secrecy of her garden, the Lady Galadriel stepped back from her Mirror and allowed the enchanted water to turn silvery grey again.

"And so it begins," she whispered softly. "They will walk on a shared path from now on. But who can tell where it will lead the last scion of Finarfin's House? When we discovered his existence, both Gildor and I thought that he would be chosen for something great; for something that might change the fate of Arda. Not for _this_… not for being bound to the son of a common smith."

But the Lord Celeborn, standing in the deep shadows of the surrounding trees, shook his head gravely.

"My Lady," he said, love and tolerance mixing in his deep voice in equal measure, "you cannot know what fate Ilúvatar still has waiting for this youngling. Your farsight and carefully-forged plans may not always be the only way to guard the secrets and treasures of Arda. Perhaps the youngling _is_ chosen for something great – for something not even your Mirror can show yet. Be patient, queen of my heart – and try to trust the Valar a little more."

"I do trust them," replied Galadriel with a sigh, "but I also feel responsible for these lands… and for the rest of my family."

"You _are_ responsible," said Celeborn with a small smile, "but you do not bear that responsibility alone. We are still here, too: Círdan and Elrond and Gildor and Thranduil. And I shall remain on your side 'till the end of Arda… and beyond. So, come back to the Tree City with me now. You have preparations to make. At least one of your plans is about to come to fruition in a few days' time."

TBC

* * *

**End notes:**

(1) Earlier, rejected name of Calenbel, the area below Amon Hen. I borrowed it from _HoME 7: The Treachery of Saruman_, for the Avari part of Lórien.

(2) Fays of the valleys and the meads in "The Lost Tales 1". I assumed that they were either Maiar of Yavanna or merely characters of Avari legends.

(3) Common Eldarin for "River-daughter". Courtesy of Erunyauve.


End file.
